Snare
by drumming-ninja96
Summary: Jason Downs is the Drum Captain at McGuire High School. What happens when his entire life- drumming- gets taken away from him? What will happen with his family, his girlfriend, and  most importantly ... his drumline?
1. Prologue Unbelievable

**Prologue:**

**Unbelievable.**

It was probably the first time in drumline history.

It was unbelievable- especially at McGuire High School. It was the absolute best thing a band director could do to a group of twelve drummers. It was somewhat unheard of, as they are usually the root of all problems (especially if they weren't). It was something crazy and wonderful and mind-blowing: the band director _complimented _them. At _McGuire High School_. For something that they'd _played_.

This was odd for two reasons: one being the fact that any drumline anywhere probably gets blamed a lot for timing, footing, posture, playing too loudly…

But the second reason was that it was at _McGuire _High School. Other bands around Texas had good bands with good drumlines and such, but McGuire High was always infamous for not being the best. And that showed through everything- even their football team who hadn't won a game since Homecoming of 1979.

"This is the best drumline I've ever had. That was the best I've ever heard that played, don't you agree, band?" Stephen Locke, the aforementioned band director had asked during a scorching-hot afternoon practice in the school's practice field in Houston.

Then they spent the next twenty minutes going over the same set about forty times. But hey, it was a _compliment_: something so rare to drumlines that it was something to be praised; cherished (which is pretty sad actually, but that's life I guess). And the compliment, naturally, went straight to the drum captain, the heartbeat of the band. His name was Jason Downs.


	2. Chapter 1 The Fish Invasion

**Chapter 1**

**The Fish Invasion**

The first day of summer band camp always has its ups and downs.

Up: you get to see all of the semi-friends that you missed dearly and haven't seen or talked to since last marching season

Down: you get up eaaaaaaaaaaarly and aren't allowed to have junk food for the first time in two months

Up: you finally get to see how good the band and/or marching show will be this year and hope that somehow, some way, you'll make it to state.

Down: it's summer. In Houston. It's hot and muggy and it seems like there are clouds everywhere except directly in front of the sun. You sweat just sitting in the shade and going into the half-air-conditioned cafeteria filled with other sweaty kids.

Up: you never ever knew that water had a taste until band. A really, really good taste.

Down: the fish.

For some reason nobody knows and everybody knows, the freshmen, the fish, are unbearable. They have no clue what's going on, and they are SO annoying and are always asking _this_ and _that_ and you have to help them with everything. They're just so… needy. Feeble. Weak.

The old drum made a kind of _Whack! _Sound when it hit the ground. The noise reverberated off the walls of the percussion studio and the other people in the room snatched their ears as it hit the (now broken) gong that broke its fall.

Silence. More Silence. Awkward Silence.

"Warn us next time you decide to do something stupid, man!" the horrified Adrien yelled at Jason, his drum captain. "Maybe then we won't go deaf!" But Jason just smiled and hopped off the chair he'd been standing on to get the drum down from the top shelf. Will, a bass drummer, had walked over to check out the damage to the drum.

"It's fine," Jason insisted. "It's been here since the school opened; not too much more could happen to it that it hasn't already handled. Chill."

"No, look," Will said, pointing at the drum. "Congrats, Jason. In one fall you've managed to chip the rim, dent the lug nuts, and scrape the head."

"Don't forget the gong, man." Adrien said.

"Oh yeah," Will grabbed one end of the fallen gong and held it up. It was now bent in the shape of an L. "Hopeless, useless, completely and totally destroyed."

"Well, Locke told me to get it down! I was just doing what he told me!" Jason defended.

"No but-"

"Adrien-" the room broke out into a brawl. Adrien, now pissed at Jason for nearly-breaking the oldest drum in the school, threw his drumsticks on the floor and started cussing out the one that rebounded and came back to hit him in the knee. Maria and Christian, who were polishing their drums, came over and tried to tell Will to back off Jason, telling him the only reason he was mad was because _he_ wanted to be drum captain (which was true, but he didn't admit it). Jason argued back at Will, Adrien rolled on the floor in pain (a little bit over-dramatically), and the door to the percussion room opened.

All went deadly quiet.

Mr. Ross, the percussion teacher, slowly walked in, a thoroughly confused look on his face.

"What's goin' on?" he asked, looking around at Adrien- who had stopped rolling on the floor- Will, with a stick in his hand about to strike Jason from behind, who was about to dive for the bass drum mallet two feet in front of him. Maria and Christian stood still, in the middle of cussing out Will for being an idiot. But Ross remained calm; no one had ever even seen him mad. "Well, the freshmen are here."

Five innocent, excited, tired, weak-looking fish walked through the door, marveling at all of the drums and keyboards that lined the walls of the percussion studio. There was one really short one- Ash- who was cast as a bass drum, a shorter girl with long dark hair was hired as a tenor player, whose named was Gabriella. A tall one with short blonde hair and a goofy look on his face (Liam) got bass 5- the heaviest drum- and the two remaining fish- Sam and Tom- were picked as snare players.

There were as many fish as juniors and seniors combined. This could mean one of two things:

The fish were all really good. Like really really good.

_They_ were just that bad; bad enough to need fish fill up half the drumline.

Jason knew these were the possibilities and wondered which one was true.

Will came over to them with a stack of name tags. They were not the "hello, my names is…" kind, but the kind where for Sam, it had a million hello-kitty stickers, Tom got a unicorn and a few purple puffy pony stickers, and Gabriella's was _completely_ covered in every color of glitter in the universe. You know- the embarrassing kind. Made especially for the fish by the upperclassmen.

Houston is pretty close to Galveston Bay, and it's in the south. This makes it hot, musty, humid, and sticky throughout the entire day every day out of summer. Summer in Houston lasts from April to the middle of October, and doesn't take one day to rest. The air always feels heavy with wetness and no matter where the sun is the wide-open skies in Texas make it so that it is _always _beating down on you with an infinite amount of pressure.

Despite wearing the normal gear- baseball cap, shorts, t-shirts, and sunglasses- you still are not safe from the sun and will, within the first week of summer band, develop a very distinct "band tan". A Band Tan is a t-shirt-sock/shoe-sunglasses-shorts tan. A very dark one.

Despite bringing your half gallon water jug filled to the rim with icy-cold water that will literally safe your life (and keep you from fainting), right after the water break they have every 45 minutes to an hour, your mouth will dry up so quickly that it doesn't feel like the water did anything at all (but then once the first person of summer band faints, they will step up water breaks to every 30 minutes!).

Real fish cannot live out of water. Our fish cannot live without drinking water. Every ten minutes, they take a five minute break from practice to sit in the shade behind the band kids' cars and drink their icy-cold water and laugh at all of the sophomores, juniors, and seniors that are supposed to suck it up and keep working.

So, needless to say, on the first day of summer band, at least half of the freshmen were taken into the semi-air-conditioned ninth grade center, behind which was where the band practiced. This went on for the first week, until they got used to the heat (and not being so stupid as to drink two glasses of milk right before they went for an outdoor 8-hour-per-day practice).

On the second day of summer band, in the far central edge of the field, along the fifty yard line, the drumline was training their new recruits. The heat index was 102̊- 112̊ and sweat was dripping off of their fingers as Jason Downs worked with the snares and tenors on band chants and proper marching.

"Ready, Set"

"_SET!_" _Clap. Clap. Clap. Clap._ "_Dut, dut, dut, dut, dut. Squeeze, push, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, stab, close._" The line of snares and tenors marches eight steps forward from the 50 yard line to the side one 45 yard line, closing their feet in a V at the end.

Ten yards away, a line of four basses took their first steps as well, while their drill instructor monitored their posture, step size, and technique.

Ash stood in line with the other bass drums in the mass band block. Sweat dripped down his face, into his eyes. His skin stung from the heat and his eyes ached from the brightness of the sun. His curly hair was matted down from his baseball cap and his shoes felt like the bare concrete- hard, solid, not giving in. Humidity stuck to his arms, neck, and legs, and every time he moved, his skin stuck to the dense air, seeming to put more weight on his already tired structure. The heat was unbearable. The concrete was unforgiving. The correct posture ached. The breakfast in his stomach was churning; it was coming up.

"I'm gonna be sick!" He said softly as he ran for the ninth grade center. Jason ran after him.

Once inside the semi-air-conditioned cafeteria, Ash sat on the cold floor, thanking God for creating shade.

"Does this happen to everyone?" he asked Jason, who sat five feet away from him, close enough to make sure he didn't throw up.

"Most of the fish, yeah. You're for sure not the only one." Silence followed until the door burst open and three trumpets, two French horns, two tubas, and four euphoniums came rushing in for the shade.

"Told you.


	3. Chapter 2 The Show

**Chapter 2**

**The Show**

"And when will the rest of the drill be in? …. Alright. Thanks Chris. Bye." Mr. Locke sat in his office in the (air conditioned) band hall sipping his diet coke and eating Subway. Scattered throughout the school, the different sections practiced their music indoors, a relief they got twice a day. He'd been talking on the phone with Chris Adams, the band's drill writer.

Locke looked around his office. Fifteen years of teaching at McGuire High School had gotten him many awards from concert-style band. Fifteen years of teaching at McGuire High School had gotten him no awards for marching band. Pictures lined the grey walls of the tiny room- pictures with friends, students, teachers, parents, family. Smiles, reminding him all that he'd accomplished, even if he didn't make State Marching Band this year. This year would be his last. Plaques hung on the wall nearest the band hall, where the kids were now playing ninja and pelting each other with hacky sacks. Plaques that read "4th place", "5th place", "7th place". It always seemed that if the top 3 bands moved on to bigger contests, his band got 4th place. Last year, six moved on to State, they got 7th place. By one point. All of the kids in the band knew it was the marching band's life- work hard for four months, lose by one place. It was the one thing that was certain, and the one thing they wanted to change. This year, though, Locke was determined to make State. For once in his career as a teacher, he wanted to be the best.

His thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door.

"The drum majors said you wanted to see me?" Jason Downs stood in the doorway.

"Yeah, son. Come in. Sit." Locke nervously brushed his hand through his graying hair. "I need to talk to you about something we want to try for this year's show. Its big, and dangerous, and could take us to State. And it involves the drumline."

"Okay," Ideas churned in Jason's mind. "Are you gonna have us throw our drums up in the air, do a back flip, have it land back on us and then we keep playing?" he asked jokingly. "Cause we've been trying to get you to do that for years."

Locke laughed. "No, but it's pretty cool, if I do say so. The band parents have been working for months planning and building these props- the enormous spinning circles that we've been using at practice," Jason nodded. "Well, we want to do something else with them. We are going to have the snare drummers fitted for harnesses to hold you onto the circles. While you spin. And play."

"Whoa." Jason sat, imagining snare drummers playing triplet rolls together while spinning around in circles. He smiled.

"I've already talked with Mr. Ross about this and he's all for it; he says it's possible. I need you to inform your drummers about this as soon as possible so we can get their parents to sign forms and everything. So…"

"Yeah, of course!" This would be amazing.


	4. Chapter 3 Meditation

**Chapter 3**

**Meditation**

"Okay, let's try it at the _correct_ tempo this time." Jason said as the drumline practiced in sectionals. He started the metronome at 150 beats per minute. Mr. Ross was working with the front ensemble, or pit, at the ninth grade center, so it was just the drummers and their drum captain. After the eight starting beats from the metronome, the drummers started their eight-on-a-hand exercise. Jason's eyes focused on the little red blinking light on the metronome. It went on and off with the clicking metronome. The room around him disappeared. The other drummers around him disappeared. The only things in existence were his sticks in his hands, his drum, the red blinking and loud clicking of the metronome. His feet moved like he was marching, each shifting of weight hitting the ground with timed and deliberate force. His hands and feet moved together, playing in time with each other down to the millisecond. His eyes saw only the blinking of the light, which occurred at the same, steady, predictable time that his hands moved. His ears heard only the sound of his drum, which masked the clicking metronome so perfectly that you couldn't tell it was even on. The exercise ended, and he tapped it off again to the same clicking, starting the entire process over.

This was his routine. The thing that made Jason the best drummer in Houston was his focus- how he took drumming as seriously as a monk would meditation- the only thing in his life that he could spend this amount of focus on. This meditation was also the thing that took his mind off of school, his girlfriend, his friends, his parents, his little sister, his responsibilities. Without this focus and this daily cleansing, he could not function. Every time his eyes locked with Mr. Ross's clicking sticks or the blinking light of the metronome, you knew he'd entered a world where he focused on only the speed and beat and getting into the rhythm.

This was also why he never messed up. Ever.

His meditation was interrupted by the door to the percussion studio opening.

"Hey, Jason. Wanna grab Sonic?" Anna Otters, Jason's girlfriend of four months asked him. He looked at the clock. Practice had ended twenty minutes ago. He looked around the room. Everyone else had left. He'd been so focused that he didn't notice them leave.

"Uh, yeah. One sec," he took off his drum and positioned it in the row of snare drums. He took his sticks and put them in his drum cubby and grabbed his keys. "Let's go."


	5. Chapter 4 The First Show

**Note: please review! Thanks to the 2 reviews i've gotten already. I need reviews to see how to make the story better! **

**Okay: chapter 4. (lots of action!)**

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**Chapter 4**

**The First Performance**

One month after the first week of summer band, two hundred people at McGuire High School were nervous. Those two hundred band members had worked eight hours per day over the course of summer band, and now, they were about to have their first performance of the year. The show was fantastic. two minutes long, full of special effects and cool music, the first movement of _Circles_ was sure to be a hit. But they just needed to perform it in front of… people. Not band directors (who always think there's something to improve upon) or parents (who always think everything is good, even if it's the worst thing in the world). Real Live People.

During drumline class the day of the game, everyone wore their red band shirt, and had lugged around loads of crap all day till they finally got to 6th period. Shoes, socks, water bottles, garment bags, tote bags, crap sticks, good sticks, spare sticks, and homework were dumped into the drummers' designated cubbies for later use. In the middle of their eight-on-a-hand warm-up, they were interrupted by Mr. Locke, who had come to explain the afternoon and evening's schedule.

"Run-through on the practice field at three, load the truck at four, eat dinner, roll call at five, get there at six, game starts at seven, perform between eight and nine, leave by ten, home by eleven." Simple enough.

After school, the band piled into the practice field (while having people come get their cars out of it so they wouldn't get towed). A sea of red shirts and every color of shorts covered the concrete replica of a football field, and the shakos looked uniform and gave a glimpse of the future performance of the show.

After the hour-long practice, the band (especially the drummers) were dripping with so much sweat that you could fill a cup with it if you simply stuck your hand out. The five people on loading crew made their way to the truck, packing all of the instruments that had been thrown at them as upperclassmen headed off to McDonalds and freshmen and sophomores headed off to the school cafeteria for parent-sponsored dinner. Then came the prop-loading. This would be the first time they had props this big. This would be the first time they would be packed on the truck; they had not been measured in correspondence to the truck's size.

Mason, a junior, was in charge of prop number three. He used all of the possible muscle in him to lift it up to the second level of the truck to lie flat on its floor. Suddenly, he felt the grip slipping out of his sweaty hands, the wood prop sliding out and-

_Thud!_

He dropped it. Hard. On the concrete. Everyone looked his direction. He looked around and saw the other four people on loading crew moving one prop onto the truck. Together. "Wow that makes a lot of sense." He thought to himself. The other four people, now annoyed and glaring, came over, picked up the prop together, and placed in the floor of the second level of the truck.

The first quarter of the football game came and went (McGuire High was losing), and it was time for the band to get dressed and go down under the stands to warm up. The drumline stood about thirty feet away from the band, waiting on Mr. Ross to come give them tempos to warm up. When he came, he clicked his single drumstick on the rim of Jason's drum to give him the tempo for their eight-on-a-hand exercise. Jason tapped off and focused on the stick hitting the rim of his drum. His feet pounded on the ground, and he blocked out all signs of thousands of people cheering on the other team. His eyes locked with Mr. Ross' drumstick, and he blocked out all of the bright t-shirts and referee uniforms and flags and timers. His mind slipped into his calming drum coma, where it didn't do anything but focus on the music and the tempo and the two fitting together like a puzzle.

"Okay, time to go on." Mr. Ross pointed to the band, set up in the half-time block, ready to go onto the field for the show. Jason looked around at the six freshmen. Ash looked like he was going to throw up again. Gabriella didn't look like she could see anything from under the front wall of her shako that hung too low in her eyes, and Liam was somewhere off in la-la land. _Great_.

_Tweet! _

"_Yessssssssssss-"_

_Tweet! Tweet! Tweet! Tweet!_

"_HUT!"_

Shmack, shamck, shmack, shmack, shamck. Jason tapped the band onto the field to their first set of the show, and they stood upright, not daring to move from their absolute best posture for fear of an angry rant from Mr. Locke.

The night was hot and humid- as it had been for months. But tonight felt heavier than ever. Pressure sat on everyone and a pit sunk in everyone's stomachs. The sky was pitch black, speckled with the occasional faint star, but the moon shone like a jewel in the sky, full and round.

"Now presenting: the pride of McGuire High School, the McGuire High Marching Band!" the announcer's fake enthusiastic voice rang through the football stadium.

The drum majors up front started the count off and the band made its first move to its second formation, drums pounding in the ears of the drummers. Jason kept the drum majors' time by saying "dut, dut, dut" to the beat they provided. All of the drummers played perfectly aligned with each other and perfectly in time with Jason's timekeeping. Before the last hold of the movement, the snare drummers each went behind one of the five props.

Alex, who managed prop number three, helped strap Jason into the harness and foot holes in a nervous frenzy. He told Jason in a rushed, hushed voice that the prop hadn't been turning correctly and that he thought something might have happened to it on the truck over. Brushing this off, Jason strapped in and grabbed his sticks from the stick bag.

"You ready?" Alex asked Jason before turning him around.

"I'm not sure."

"Too late now." Alex spun the prop around and Jason faced the crowd, but it was hard to keep a focus on them or the drum majors. The world spun around and around in circles, and even Jason- who always focused on drumming and timing- couldn't find anywhere for his mind to focus on. Too much flooded his vision and his ears to focus on just one thing, as he rotated.

Suddenly, he felt looseness in his left ankle. The strap holding his left foot to the wooden prop was loose- screws flew out and fell to the Astroturf on the field. The harness holding the majority of his body started to wobble; it was loose too.

Jason screamed for Alex to stop the prop, but he couldn't form a sound. Or if he could it was drowned out by the overwhelming power of the tubas and other brass instruments just ten feet away. He flailed his arms and tried to reach for the edges of the prop to keep from flying off of it mid-spin, but his arms weren't long enough. He was inches away from the edge. He held on to the back of the harness to hold the hooks to the prop; it was the only thing keeping him from breaking the harness off of the prop entirely. But without holding them in place, his extra sticks fell out of his stick bag while he was upside-down and hit him in the eyes, bringing his hands away from the harness in a harsh reflex. The prop wobbled and the harness fell off of its hooks entirely. Only Jason's right ankle was still attached to the prop. This was not enough, though, and the next thrusting rotation sent him flying ten feet away as he hit the opposing football team's bench with an incredible amount of force.

All he knew was the pain. Pain in his eyes, aching and throbbing in his head, and torturing stinging in his right knee that overpowered all other hurt. People rushed to his aid, but he was already asleep.


	6. Chapter 5 Did that Really Just Happen?

**Chapter 5**

**Did That Really Just Happen?**

Everything around Jason beeped; steady, soft, warning. He opened his eyes and was blinded by bright lights shining over his face, the sudden brilliance making his head throb again. He sat in a hospital bed with the sheets uniformly tucked around him. Everything in the room was stark white and almost too clean, except for his band clothes bloodied and draped over a visitor's chair. His mother and father slept in the chairs beside him quietly. Flowers sat in a vase near his bed along with a (half-eaten) box of orange chocolates.

"Hey, you're up!" Jason jumped at the sudden sound of his best friend's voice. Cameron entered the room with a stack of papers and yet another box of chocolate. He handed the chocolate to Jason. "Those are all from Anna. She had band practice after school and didn't know if you were awake yet."

"Speaking of band practice, shouldn't you be there now?"

"Jason, Jason, Jason. When are you going to learn that I'm in JV. Junior Varsity. I don't go to practice because I'm focusing on my running skills. Hell, I don't even march at contests or games or anything. Why the hell do I have to practice for it?"

"Yeah I guess." Jason opened the box and ate a piece of chocolate. "Speaking of band-"

"The entire school knows." Cameron is one of those people that interrupts other people constantly, making you wonder if they were ever listening to what you were saying in the first place. Of course, he played impact drums in the pit, which were pretty loud to someone not used to the pounding noise.

"The entire school knows…what?"

"That you, you know," he made a falling motion with his hands. "Went… _splat_."

"I did not go splat-"

"Okay, so it was more of a _Thud!_," Cameron argued back. There was no winning against him. "Or maybe a _Crash!_ Either way, the entire school knows about it."

"That's really, really great to know, Cameron," Jason said sarcastically. But Cameron didn't catch that part.

"I brought you your homework for the past week."

"I've been in here a week?"

"Jason, I was talking," Jason rolled his eyes. Cameron might annoy the hell out of him, but they had been best friends since second grade- what can you do… "Anyways, as I was saying before you interrupted me, you're supposed to read Book the Second of _Tale of Two Cities_ for a quiz tomorrow and we're doing nothing in Bio 2, as usual, and you've got probably about a hundred problems due for Algebra 2. So, there's my monologue for the year. _Now_ you can talk."

Silence.

"You're such an ass, Cameron." Jason jokingly slugged him on the arm and they both laughed.

"Oh, the cussing, my dear friend- you really should cuss less-"

"Yeah, sure, I'll work on that."

"That reminds me: your drumline friends wanted me to give you these." Cameron dug around in his backpack till he found what he was looking for. "Your drumsticks. They said you'll probably get bored and want to practice like you do 24-7, but that you didn't have any with you. So, here."

The tape wrapped around the sticks was smooth and ridged (the tape had been layered and layered and overlapped). The ding marks toward the top of the sticks showed every time Jason had done a rim shot on them- like little single forgotten memories documented in a photo album.

"Thanks, Cameron." This time, there was no sarcasm.

Jason always had a pretty easy time falling asleep, but tonight, his mind churned restlessly, not letting him calm down. Tomorrow was his first day of school since the incident and he didn't know what would happen with his friends or, most importantly, the drumline. He couldn't even stand, let alone march! How was he supposed to carry a drum and march straight if he couldn't even hold himself up?

It hadn't really sunk in yet, that he wouldn't be walking for a while. He'd mainly been in the hospital bed for the past hours since he woke up and hadn't gotten used to the new sensation in his wheelchair.

The doctor had come in soon after he woke and explained his injuries to him: he'd had a concussion and fallen asleep, falling into a coma. His knee had been shattered by the impact of the ground and the bench, and he had tendonitis in both of his wrists from overuse. His head was bruised and a little swollen, and he had a dislocated shoulder that had been relocated to its socket. He was on morphine for the pain, and couldn't feel the immense pain he was being described.

All he did now was sit in his hospital bed, looking at the same jeweled moon he had days ago, now smaller and less important in size, and pinched himself, wanting to wake up. He stared in the mirror across the room and looked at his broken body. "Did that really just happen?"


	7. Chapter 6 Iron Bars and Prison Gates

**Chapter 6**

**Iron Bars and Prison Gates**

It was weird- sitting in a wheelchair. Jason hadn't used a wheelchair before in his life, and now he rolled it off of the handicap bus and took a look at his school. At one time, a couple of days ago, he'd been eye-level with his friends, high-fiving and "what's-up"-ing in the halls before and between classes. Now, he was the size of a second grader in his wheelchair, his backpack slung over the back of the chair and his right leg covered in a rock-hard cast.

The usual people that said hi to him in the hallway were now two feet taller, and didn't even see him. He rolled his way up to locker 1385 and waited for Anna to meet him. But she never came. Disappointed and wanting to run out of the school (then realizing he _couldn't_) he slowly made his way to his advisory class, two minutes after the bell.

The day seemed to drone on forever. The seconds went by like hours, the class periods like eons. Occasionally he would get a "hi" from some sympathetic friend who would sign his cast, which was nice and all, but he couldn't find his girlfriend, who he had been looking forward to talking to.

Sixth period drumline practice came and he entered the percussion studio to find it dead silent, even though he could hear the drums booming in the hallway two seconds earlier. They stared as he came in, rolled over to his cubby with great struggle (drums, carpet, and drumsticks were just a few of his obstacles), and nonchalantly chucked his backpack into his cubby. He looked at the rest of them, who looked at him, who looked at Mr. Ross, who looked around at the rest of them, who all looked at each other.

They smiled. "Welcome back, man."

"We missed you!" Maria squealed, hugging him.

"Don't worry, Jase, it was only school, you didn't miss a thing." Gabriella assured him. They made more small talk and signed his cast.

"Can you still drum?" Liam asked. Liam was then smacked by the entire rest of the drumline.

Jason sat in his chair. "Of course I can, Liam." He wheeled his chair up to Mr. Ross' drum in the center of the room and looked at it: he was level with the top head of the drum. Not wanting to look like a complete idiot, he snatched the drum off of its stand, sat it on the floor and looked down at where it was- level with his good knee and now two feet in front of him off to the left. He took his drumsticks and put them out in the center of the drum- he had to bend forward to do so. Slowly and uncomfortably, he started his eight-on-a-hand exercise, missing at least half of the notes. The rest of the drumline looked at him sadly as they realized a most horrible thing: they had lost their beloved drum captain.

"I hate it!" Jason screamed when he'd arrived home from school. "I hate everyone looking at me weird! I hate having to leave two minutes early from class and then still getting to the next one two minutes late! I hate not being able to go to my locker and lugging all of my crap around all day!" His mother and father were sitting on the couch in the living room of their ground-level apartment. They were silent. "I hate feeling like a reject that someone cast out of everything! I hate not being able to high-five my friends. And I Hate not being able to reach my drum!"

"Honey, it will get better. Just-" Jason rolled out of the living room for the safety of his bedroom. Once out of his chair, he (with great difficulty) hobbled over to his bed and plopped down. He thought about his friends, his homework, his girlfriend who had not contacted him in a week. He thought about the three tests he had to make up by next Tuesday (and the fact that he hadn't studied for any of them), his band, his drumline. He thought about his drumline for a long time. What would happen to it when he couldn't be the drum captain that he'd promised he'd be?

He thought about his drumline, then did something he hadn't done in a long time: he lied down and cried himself to sleep.


	8. Chapter 7 Downhill

**I'm really sorry I haven't updated in forever... really busy with finals and stufying and region band auditions and everything...**

**To make up for it, I'll post 2 chapters tonight... :)**

**so, here it is, chapter 7:**

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**Chapter 7**

**Downhill**

Saturday brought Jason a text from his…. From Anna. She'd decided that they should "just be friends" and that he really was "a really great guy" but they just weren't "meant for each other. Sorry."

This text brought Jason back to his room to mope some more, and sleep some more.

This sleeping caused him to miss breakfast and lunch, so he decided to go to Miller's down the street for a coffee. He grabbed his wallet and said goodbye to his mom and rolled out the back door. He rolled down the street in the light, pleasant air. Entering the small diner and greeting the waitress behind the bar, he took his usual table by the window in the back, but sat on the end without a chair this time.

He ordered coffee and a brownie and sat listening to his IPod until a guy about his age came with his food.

The guy was average- medium height and weight, brown curly hair, boring brown eyes. To Jason, at the time, he was just some kid who'd brought him his order and he was going to tip way too much money because the coffee was probably cold and the brownie was probably burnt. He didn't show anything unusual- Jason was sure he'd never seen him before- except, he wore a red shirt with an emblem in the top left that looked exactly like the McGuire High School Band's logo.

"You in band?" Jason asked him, gesturing toward his shirt?

"Oh, yeah. Just started. I called directors, directors called me back. Now I'm in band here." He set the plate with the brownie on the table.

"You weren't before?"

"Oh, I was, in Alabama. Just moved here." He set down the cup of coffee onto Jason's table.

"Oh," Jason stirred his coffee and stuffed another bite of brownie in his mouth. "Welcome, then."

"Thanks," Awkward silence. "So, you're in band, then?"

"Yeah, first chair, top band."

"Wow. Impressive."

"Thanks? What do you play?"

"I'm a percussionist."

"Really? Me too!" _He must be in pit with Cameron._ Jason thought.

They sat and talked for twenty minutes about Neil Peart, the Phantom Regiment, and what brands made the best marching sticks (Vic Firth won), before Jason realized what time it was and decided to head home. He told the guy he had to go home or his mother would have a heart attack (not a lie).

"Oh, okay, then. It was really a pleasure to meet you…"

"Jason."

"Jason. Pleasure to meet you, Jason."

"You to," he looked at the kid's nametag. "Josh." He tipped him, finished off the last of his coffee, rolled out of the small diner, and was on his way home.

Once home, he sat down on his bed, leg limped off to the side, and took out his favorite (and breaking) pair of drumsticks and did his eight-on-a-hand exercise very sloppily on a pillow. After he'd finished drumming, he took a deep breath and smiled. He felt a lot better.


	9. Chapter 8 Replacement

**Chapter 8**

**Replacement**

Bright and early Monday morning, Jason rolled into school feeling most of the pressures that had overwhelmed him just days before lifted from his shoulders- as if someone had taken bass 5 off of him for the first time in days. He rolled into his first class with a smile on his face, and was greeted with some in return.

By second period, nine people had asked to sign his cast and he'd gotten about a million more greetings in the hall than last Friday. In his second period French class, Anna's best friend, Kelley, passed a note to Deemer, who passed it to Abbey, who passed it to Camille, who passed it to Jason.

"We need to talk." It read. He nodded back to Kelley.

After class, he found Kelley in the hall. "Hey, what'dya need to talk to me about?"

"It's actually about Anna."

"Oh." Jason looked at the ground.

"She texted me to tell you to meet her by the vending machines after school."

"Why? She broke up with me."

"I know. Sorry about that by the way." She touched his arm.

"Thanks." He said. "Do you know what she wants to talk to me about?"

"I dunno. Maybe to say sorry that she dumped you? I heard it was over a text. That's rough." They began walking to third period.

"Yeah, well, whatever. Ya know? I don't need her." He told himself more than her. He tried to believe it.

It was 12:36 when Josh Michaels walked into the band hall on his first day at McGuire High School. The walls of the band hall were covered in 1st place achievements for region, state, national, and international concert band competitions. There were three flags on the back wall with some German words on them. The one word he understood was "musik" The left wall had shelves lining the top few feet. There were about 50-60 trophies and plaques on the shelves, ranging drastically in size and shape. As he looked closer he saw that almost all of them read "concert band" except for one marching band one that dated back to 1976.

"You must be Josh, then." A man with a strong voice said loudly in the empty room. "Come, I'll introduce you to the percussion teacher."

Mr. Ross was in the percussion room waiting for his drumline to come in for the school practice. He had always been a multi-task-er (he kind of has to be- marching and playing at the same time is not as easy as it looks) and was in the middle of text three of his friends and playing his 9th grade region music from ten years ago.

Mr. Ross was definitely a favorite teacher among not only the percussionists, but everyone in the band. Of course, he was young, just out of college, and was more fun to talk to than the forty-something band directors who only cared about how good your marching technique was.

He stood at the wooden marimba with his four mallets playing _Yellow after the Rain_ when the door to the percussion room swung open and Mr. Locke, his boss, walked in with a kid.

"Joe, this is Joshua Michaels-"

"Josh."

"Your newest drummer. He's a…"

"Junior." Josh answered.

"He's a junior snare drummer, and your new drum captain. He needs to-"

"I already have a drum captain."

"You drum captain isn't able to stand. How do you expect him to march?"

"There's ways for a person in a wheelchair to march, Steve."

"Well we don't have the time for that." The door opened and some of the drummers walked in talking about the Algebra II test. "Josh is your drum captain. He has experience being a Drill Instructor and was going to be the Drum Captain next year at his old school anyway."

"Steve, Jason really wants to march."

"Joe, I appreciate you wanting to help your students, but it cannot be done. I'd like to have Jason in the show this year, but it _isn't possible_, not this year." He looked at Josh, who stood there awkwardly. "I'm sorry, Joe. But I need this to happen." He gave them a sad smile and walked out of the room.

"What does he mean?" Ross looked behind him at Jason, who'd just entered the room. "What does he mean 'new drum captain?'"

"Jason, Mr. Locke thinks it would be better if Josh-"

"I am not letting someone else take my place!" Jason wheeled up to him

"It's only for this marching season. Next season-"

"Mr. Ross, I'm a senior. I'm not coming back next year. This is- was- my last year to be able to be in a marching show. Next year, I'm in college. Next Year, I'm gone." All of the drummers were silent. Josh stood in the corner by the cymbal stands, not daring to interfere, not daring to speak.

"I'm sorry, Jason," Mr. Ross stepped closer. "I really am. But there is nothing I can do." He touched Jason's arm knowingly. Shoving him away, Jason wheeled himself out of the room.


	10. Chapter 9 Reset

**First, I want to thank everyone for all of the great reviews. They really help. :)**

**Special thanks to:**

**doctorwhofan16, Quadplayer, a reader, and Elaine Kaelar. **

**Without further ado, chapter 9... (sorry in advance for the cliff hanger }:] )**

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**Chapter 9**

**Reset.**

"And if you are in need of extra help, come see me for tutorials after school today before the test tomorrow." Jason sat in algebra II, speedily and angrily taking notes. He was pissed about Josh and having to make up tests and things with Anna and all of the crap that currently filled his life. "Is anyone for sure going to come after school?" No one raised their hand. Jason didn't want to be the only one in the entire class who needed to come after school, just to fail the test the next day anyway. It'd be worse than being a nerd- he'd be a dumb nerd.

After classes, Jason headed to the drum room out of habit. Two hallways away, he could hear the sound of snares and tenors and the low rumble of bass drums. He smiled at the familiar hum of cadences and warm-ups and solos the reverberated through the tiled floors and walls. He walked down and was met with Josh trying to tap off the drumline to warm up.

"Josh, we don't warm up till three. It's only 2:45." Gabriella reminded him, annoyed.

"Well, too bad. We need to get whipped into shape. We might have a chance of being good it we spend more time on stuff like this." Jason took this as a tremendous insult and glared at him. "Oh, Jason. Hi. I'm sorry," The door opened behind Jason. "But this is a closed rehearsal. No non-drummers aloud."

Jason felt like a bomb was dropped on him. He _was_ a drummer. No matter what the hell _Josh_ said, he would always be a drummer. All eyes were on him. Would he leave? Fight back? Cuss him out?

"Josh, Jason is still part of this drumline. He is still a drummer." Mr. Ross came to the rescue from behind Jason, annoyed at Josh for trying to shoo his best drummer, and at Locke for assigning this guy as his new drum captain.

"No," Jason said, embarrassed and still glaring at Josh, who stopped smirking. "I was just leaving."

"Not turning out to be my best day." Jason whispered to himself as he headed to meet Anna at the vending machines.

Anna was buying a coke when he arrived, but she wasn't alone. Kelley and some new dude were with her. Jason recognized him as the captain of the football team, Brent (Or Brian, or Bob. Jason couldn't quiet remember very many people outside of his band friends). He also recognized her Anna's laugh. It was her flirting laugh that she'd used months ago when she was trying to get Jason to ask her out. And now, she was trying to do the same to Brent-Brian-Bob.

"Hey." Jason greeted awkwardly.

"Oh," Anna stopped laughing and turned to look at him. "Hey, Jase…"

There was a pregnant silence.

"You… wanted to see me?" Jason continued.

"Oh. Yeah. I just wanted to give you back these." She dug in her backpack until she found drumsticks that he'd left at her house last summer. She'd purposely kept them; they reminded her of Jason. But now, she'd moved on to Brent-Brian-Bob. Maybe she'd keep his football at her house. He took the drumsticks in his hand, their fingers brushing in the exchange. She pulled away quickly. "Come on, Brian," _So his name was Brian_. "I've gotta go get ready for band practice." Anna gave Jason a sad smile and walked away. Kelley came up and touched his arm.

"You okay?" she asked.

"Yeah," He stood, looking blankly at the vending machine. "Can I tell you something? You won't tell Anna?"

"Sure…" she replied cautiously.

"I left my sticks at her house on purpose. I wanted her to remember me."

"Jason, can I tell you something?" he nodded. "I already knew that." They both smiled and laughed.

"Okay, now. Can I ask you something?"

"Sure…" she replied cautiously again.

"Do you understand anything in Algebra II?" He asked hopelessly. She smiled.

"Yeah. Come on. I'll help you." She dragged him in the direction of the library.

"Thanks."

After learning all he needed to learn for the test the next day, Jason started walking home since he missed the bus and his parents wouldn't be able to pick him up till late. His backpack swung as he crutched his was across the street and passed the ninth grade center.

The band was practicing the first movement and as they made their way closer and closer to the drum break, Jason knew they'd be off time when they got there. Sure enough, twenty seconds later, the drumline halted and began the complex arrangement of strokes- not this one playing with that one and none of them playing with whichever one.

"CUT!" Mr. Locke screamed over the microphone. The head drum major blew her whistle and the band- more some people than others- halted, causing multiple train wrecks between sections. "Reset. Percussion: do not rush. Josh, watch your drum major. You should know at least these first sets by now. Do not get lost. One more time."

The sea of t-shirts and baseball caps became a less distinct figure than it had been ten seconds ago as every person rushed back to their sets and, like magic, every person found their first position, a perfect form coming from chaos. Jason noticed Josh: he was exhausted, panting and dragging his feet back to the set. Sweat dripped off his body from every angle and Maria and Gabriella were most disgusted by his extremely sweaty state. Jason smiled smugly to himself, and then realized he should feel sorry for Josh, which he (happily) did.

Mr. Ross walked over to where the percussion stood near the back sideline of the field in this particular set and talked to Josh. Jason continued his way home, which just so happened to pass right by where the rest of the drumline was waiting for the drum majors to call them to attention- and where Josh was getting a lecture.

"You've had just as long to learn the music as the rest of them. We sent it to you even a week before the rest of them got it! You should know this by now. By heart. Practice this ten hundred times to be able to play it by memory once. It doesn't do well to just practice; you have to practice correctly, with purpose, and paying attention to what you're doing." Ross' eyes shifted up to spot Jason as he was eavesdropping on his way home. "Jason," he called. Jason looked over, not expecting him to be dragged into this. Ross beckoned him over. The rest of the band had moved on to the next hold, but Josh, Mr. Ross, and Jason stood by the water bottles.

"Hello Mr. Ross. What's up?" Jason greeted, intentionally ignoring Josh. He'd never seen Ross this pissed. His face was red and he was sweating (this could have been from the heat, though).

"Jason, I need you to stay after school and help Josh learn his music and his sets and his role in the band." He looked at Josh, who was now flushed with embarrassment.

"Sure," Jason smiled, wanting an opportunity to _get to know_ Josh. "How's tomorrow for you, Joshy?"

"It's going to take longer than one practice after school." Not trying to intentionally embarrass Josh or anything, but Ross knew that he needed help. "He needs to learn the warm ups, the tap offs, the show music, his sets, marching fundamentals for _our _school, and he needs to learn traditional grip." That was certainly a lot of stuff he didn't know.

"Wow. You don't know traditional?" He asked Josh.

He shook his head sadly. "We used matched grip in Alabama." Jason nodded.

"Jason, you in?" Mr. Ross asked.

The sound of "Reset, One more time" could be heard from the speakers while Jason contemplated the offer.

"Yeah. I'm in."'

"Great. Thanks. I'd do it myself, but I have private lessons and other things I have to do."

"Yeah, Mr. Ross. I get it. It's no problem, really." He smiled at Josh, who was looking scared about why Jason was smiling. "In fact, I'm _looking forward_ to it."

Josh gulped.


	11. Chapter 10 Reset One More Time

**Hey everyone! I hope all of you had a great Christmas/vactation! I got a marching band t-shirt :) **

**Anyway, here's Chapter 10. hope you enjoy...**

**reviews/comments are GREATLY APPRECIATED!**

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**Chapter 10**

**Reset. One more Time.**

It was 3:00 in the afternoon when Jason arrived in the empty percussion room after school the next day. Josh was ready with his snare on, dressed in shorts and a t-shirt.

"Practice field. We're working on marching first." Jason instructed, grabbing his red practice drum pad and a pair of sticks. "Be there in five minutes."

"I don't have a car. It'll take at least ten to fifteen minutes to walk there with all the cars."

"Hmm, oh well. Five minutes."Jason said.

Ten minutes later, Jason was already five minutes late. Josh was panting after running over with his drum on. This may sound a bit surprising, but he was intimidated by Jason, but he didn't want to admit it to anybody, especially Jason. When Jason arrived ten minutes late with a McDonald's bag, a large ice-cold coke, and a girl who'd driven him and instructed Josh to do three laps around the field, Josh could hardly believe it.

"I'm not going to be made into some toy that you use to amuse yourself when you're bored of sitting on your ass all the time!"

Jason took a big sip of his coke, and replied, "Running will loosen your legs. You were extremely tight when you were marching yesterday. I'm guessing you were running late and missed stretches?" Josh nodded. "Well, you should always stretch or you could pull a muscle or something. Which would be bad and we'd assign another junior as drum captain. You don't want that, do you?" Josh shook his head. "Right. So, three laps around the field. If you whine or complain or get a cramp, you get two more laps. Go!"

Josh put his sticks down and started running for the edge of the field. He ran his three laps, without, to Jason's displeasure, half-dying. He was slightly panting as he came back over to where Jason and the girl sat on the hood of the girl's car.

"Not bad. You didn't die. Yet. Now, stretch." Josh looked confused. Jason hopped down from his perch. "Feet, calves, thighs, hips, back, shoulders, hands, forearms, arms, neck, roll-down, balance." Josh looked perplexed. Jason sighed. "Foot against the light pole over there. Push into the pole. Switch. Same thing." Jason instructed him through the rest of the stretches he'd rambled off while the mystery girl watched. "Wha'dya think, Kelley? Is he done with stretching?"

"Come on, Jason. Give him something else to do. God knows there's only a few things worse than stretching."

"Fine, I'll be merciful. Pick up your drum." Josh did so, sweating in the Houston heat. "Now, do the eight-on-a-hand exercise at 90 beats per minute."

"You haven't given me a metronome." Josh said.

"You should learn to do a simple thing like this at a speed I give you without needing a metronome to tell you the speed. You're the drum captain, Joshy. You need to be able to keep the other eleven people on the Line on tempo. You can't do that if you can't keep _yourself_ on tempo. Tap yourself off and do the exercise sixteen times."

_TAP tap tap tap TAP tap tap tap TAP tap TAP tap TAP TAP TAP TAP_

Jason sat back down again. After the first six beats, he stood back up again, leaning on his left foot. "Stop! Stop!" Josh stopped.

"What is it this time?"

"You're already off beat."

"How would you know, if you're not using a metronome?"

"I don't need a metronome to stay on beat." Jason replied. He took a drumstick from Josh's stick bag and tapped Josh off on his rim. Josh began to play. Sixteen runs later, Jason tapped him off with one stick in the air to tell him 'last time.' "Faster. One more time." Jason tapped him off about twenty beats faster. Josh played through the exercise sixteen times and stopped. Faster. One more time. Tap tap tap. Sixteen times. Stop. Faster. One more time. Rap rap rap. Sixteen times. Stop.

"Whew! That certainly was a work out, wasn't it?" Josh said.

"Yeah. Now, show music. What's lacking there?"

Josh got the music out. "Well, I think this part, and a little here."

"Okay, well play it through and I'll see what needs fixing." Josh played through the first piece. When he finished, Jason told him what needed improving. "For one, you need to learn to play _correctly_ with traditional grip. Matched grip is fine if you're playing tenors or something, but you aren't. You're playing snare, and you need to look like the rest of the Line. If you don't you will either look like a single idiot or make everyone else on snare look like idiots. Either way, we don't want that, so learn traditional grip. You're not at your high school in Alabama anymore. You're at _my_ high school in Texas." Josh's jaw tightened and his fists clenched around his sticks. "Also, you're playing is, well," Jason searched for the right word. "Wimpy." He found it. "You need to define your stick heights and keep them the same for each dynamic. Don't shift around. You've got the right rhythms, but there's something…lacking. You need more confidence when you play. You need to know that you're playing the right thing. Right now, you're playing correctly, but you need to interpret the music. Right here," Jason pointed to measure 37 in the music. "Here, you could be louder. And there," measure 46, "this could be way softer. That's pianissimo, so _play_ pianissimo.

"Other than developing dynamics and style and learning traditional grip and being able to play it three times without any mistakes, you should be okay for now. But keep in mind, the last movement is where the arranger likes to be, well, _dynamic_ with the dynamics. You've gotta step it up and learn this stuff, or you're no better than some 6th grader who hasn't learned the difference between forte and piano. No offense to 6th graders or anything." Jason smiled at how Josh squirmed under embarrassment.

Josh couldn't take the ridicule from someone whose only priority was to make him fail- was he helping or hurting? "Who the hell do you think you are? Coming and criticizing everything I've played! I'd like to see you march and play that perfectly at the same time!"

"In case you haven't noticed," Jason shot back. "The only reason you're on drumline is because I can't be! They only recruited you because they needed another drummer!"

"They recruited me because I was good! I made region every year!"

"Playing snare drum inside, standing still is a lot different that playing snare drum out here. Out here, the entire rest of the band depends on _you_ to keep rhythm, you have to be there for the pit, the brass, the woodwinds, and the rest of the drumline or everything will fall apart. You cannot afford to make mistakes. Mistakes lead to accidents or injuries or bad scores or getting yelled at."

"You're already yelling at me."

"If you played it like it is supposed to be played, marched how you're supposed to march, and act how you're supposed to act, I wouldn't have to yell at you. I wouldn't even have to do this. If you could handle the pressure that school and friends and parents and directors and your own brain put on your shoulders, then we wouldn't have a problem, but obviously you're not getting something!

"You have a responsibility to the band and the directors and your drummers. Don't let them down." Jason opened the passenger's door to Kelley's car and she drove him home.


	12. Chapter 11 Addiction

**It's been a long-ish time since I last updated, sorry. School started (ugh) and my schedule changed (ugh x2). No more drumline class for me anymore- concert band :(**

**sorry for my stalling, here's another long-ish chapter. Hope you like it :)**

**Review, please! I don't know what is good/bad if you don't review! Thanks!**

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**Chapter 11**

**Addiction**

Pain. It was in every inch of his body. It filled up every nerve until it was like an electric shock being surged through every limb. He squirmed and writhed, trying for release from the excruciating stinging.

Jason jumped out of bed and painfully limped to his bathroom, fumbling with the light switch. He looked in the mirror- his eyes were like black holes and his face was long and almost lifeless. He looked down for the one thing he needed more than anything- the small bottle of Vicodin pain pills. He took three or four- maybe it was five- out of the tiny orange bottle and aimed for his hand, but one missed in the fall and fell into the sink. Shaking and sweaty, he threw back his head and put the other two or three- maybe four- remaining pills in his mouth and swallowed without water. The bitter taste of the pills was masked only by the pain illusion- the trick his mind played on him.

Knowing false relief was only minutes away, he calmed down a bit and painfully limped back to his bed, plopping down and wincing as his knee touched the sheets. Tears were streaming down his face and he cried into his pillow. He unclasped his hand to find the little orange bottle still in it. He put it near his pillow in case he needed it and lolled off into Sleep.

Jason woke the next morning looking and feeling completely normal. His knee didn't hurt too bad this morning, the black holes he'd had for eyes were know their normal shape, and he wasn't sweaty or clammy. He got his crutches and directed himself for the bathroom, where he took a shower and brushed his teeth. He found his bottle of pain pills near his bed and took two- even though his knee didn't hurt- just to be safe, and stuffed the bottle in his pocket, in case he needed them later. He grabbed his backpack and crutched off to school.

"Mr. Downs, what is the answer?" Jason woke up.

"The answer to what?" he looked around as the people around him giggled. He was in Latin class.

"When you conjugate verbs, how do you tell which conjugation it is?"

"The um…" he looked around and found the conjugation poster on the wall. "The first principle part?"He couldn't see the poster.

"Incorrect, Mr. Downs. Perhaps if you paid attention instead of catching up on your rest, you might learn something in this class."

The class snickered, making Jason blush, embarrassed. "Mr. Rogers, may I go to the restroom?" His teacher waved him off and kept teaching. Jason left the classroom, clasping the pill bottle in his jacket pocket.

He found the restroom and went into a stall, pouring out two small pills into his palm. This was the third time today he'd left class for medical relief. He'd taken more than the directed amount of pills, but he thought it was worth it- he needed the relief from the pain. However, the pills also made him a bit drowsy.

He looked up in the mirror as he stood outside the stall. He looked tired and sullen, holding himself low with a feeling of hopelessness. He moved his hand up to his head, but as he watched his reflection in the glass, the movements were jerky and his everything spun. He tried to walk to the door of the bathroom, but didn't make it and ended up asleep on the floor- the pill bottle still in his hand.

For the second time within the past few weeks, everything around Jason beeped. This time, though, he woke in the school nurse's office, the beeping of phone calls filling his ears. He looked around at a boy who was moaning about stomach pain in the corner, there were aids and trainers checking out people with ankle or leg injuries, and the nurse was going around having people call their parents if they were truly sick or go back to class if they were faking. She made her way to Jason.

"How are you feeling, sweetie?"She asked sincerely.

"Umm, fine? Why am I here?" He was sweating and nervous.

"What's the last thing you remember, Jason?"

"I…I was in Latin, sleeping." Jason lied. He knew that he was in the bathroom taking pills.

"Well, hon, we found you on the floor of the bathroom. You'd passed out. Do you have low blood sugar?" He shook his head 'no.' "Diabetes?" another shake. "Anxiety disorder?" Nope. "Did you have breakfast?" he wanted the questions to stop, so he said no. "That'd be your problem, then. Here's a pass to go to lunch early. Get some food in you. That's probably all it was."

_No, what it was probably was a Vicodin overdose. Jason thought to himself, but nodded and took the pass, heading to the lunch room. He wasn't particularly hungry- he hadn't been in days- but it would sure be better than going back to class._

__

He got in the lunch line with some of the people who had their lunch period now, and bought a pizza slice and a water. Sitting down at an unfamiliar table, he realized that none of his band friends had this lunch period; most of them had C lunch to correspond with the morning band classes. So, he sat alone at a random table, not really wanting to eat, but taking a bite anyway. He took another bite of the pizza and suddenly felt nauseous. Drinking a swig of water, he tried to calm his stomach down; it hadn't had food in days and wasn't used to pizza. When he thought he was fine, he took another bite of pizza and swallowed, gagging as it went down. Some of the other people at the table looked weirdly at him- partially because they didn't know him and partially because he looked like he was going to be sick any second. A couple of people scooted away from him.

He felt the uncomfortable feeling of churning food wanting to come up- he hadn't felt it since his first day of band camp in 9th grade. Jason gagged and winced and got weird looks from people before he rushed off to the nearest bathroom- running painfully to get there in time.

He threw up into the toilet. He felt like crap. Complete crap. He went back to the lunch table afterwards, cleared his place, picked up his crutches and backpack, and crutched right out the main entrance of the school.


	13. Chapter 12 Leg Lifts

**Hey, thanks for everything guys :)**

**enjoy! review (especially the second one... }:) )**

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**Chapter 12**

**Leg Lifts**

"Jason, sweetie, I need to drop you off at your physical therapy appointment!" Mrs. Downs yelled to her son from the kitchen. She was busy- she had to take him, go to the grocery store, pick up Jason's dry cleaning for the homecoming dance, make dinner for them, and then drive up to the hospital for the unexpected night shift she'd have to pull.

"I'm coming, mom. I'll be ready in a sec." Jason grabbed his backpack and his crutches as he stood up off the couch in the living room. He tossed his backpack by the door to their apartment and found his shoes on the floor, quickly putting them on.

"Come on, we're late and I have a billion things to do before my shift tonight!" Jason smiled. His mother always over exaggerated, got really nervous, got everything done, then had an excessive amount of unused time. But she never noticed this and rushed all the time. She opened the door, grabbed his backpack for him, and they headed to the car.

The drive there was relatively uneventful; they hit every red light and seemed to only need streets that were blocked for construction. When they pulled up in front of the physical therapist's office, Jason's mom got out and ushered him inside, where she signed him in, kissed him on the cheek, and said she'd be back in two hours. Jason waited in the lobby (he was about 20 minutes early despite all of the traffic and road complications) and opened the Charles Dickens book that he was supposed to read for English.

"Downs comma Jason." Said one of the physical therapists. He looked up from his book.

"I'm Downs comma Jason, but I usually just go by Jason." In looking up, he noticed that her nametag read 'Chelsea' and she had long black hair.

"Oh, I see. We've got a funny man here, huh?" he smiled and followed her to the room.

She had him do many stretches with his knee and had him put weight on it. He tried hard to mask the quick quips of pain he felt each time it hit the ground, but gasped every time.

"So how'd you hurt it?" she asked while he was doing leg lifts.

"It's kind of a funny story. And a long one." He answered.

"Well, we've still got another hour till your session is up."

"We've only been going an hour? Damn, feels like four times that."

"Yeah, I know. All the pain makes time go by really slowly. But don't change the subject."

"Well, fine. So, I'm in marching band."

"Oh, band geek, huh?" she smiled at him.

"Yeah, and proud of it." He looked at her and smiled. "Anyways, I play drums and this year, our director wanted us to do something really cool for State and BOA and crap."

"What's BOA?"

"Bands of America." She nodded. "And so he figured- hey, why not have those drummers spin around on gigantic circles and play at the same time- you know, just for kicks."

She laughed. "Did you, uh, fall off?"

"Yep. At our first game. It flung me into the opposing football team's bench mid-spin. Got a concussion and went in a coma for a couple of days, too."

She winced. "Oh my gosh."

"Yeah. Now, I can't drum or anything and I gotta train this newbie from Alabama. He's a fair drummer and all, but he's not used to how we do things down here. He's used to Mobile, Alabama, not Houston, Texas."

"I see. So what do you do know?"

"Nothing. I go to school, I don't do any work, I go home and watch TV or whatever for four hours. There's nothing else to do. I could practice for region band auditions, but I learned those two weeks ago and can play 'em perfect. My drum teacher's all like, 'one of you has to make at least the first round of region band auditions this year. Ya'll think this is a game, but it's not' and all that crap, so I'm actually gonna try this year."

"Wow. I'm so sorry about that."

"Don't be sorry. Just let me stop doing these leg lifts!" He squealed as he sat up. She laughed.

"It's not funny."

"Sure." She rolled her eyes. "Anyway, maybe you should get a job or hang out with a girlfriend or something."

"My girlfriend dumped me after I lost my position as drum captain. Now she's dating some football jerk. But…"

"How 'bout a job then? Gives you something to do, you get to meet new people, you get money."

"Never thought of that. I've got no way to get anywhere though- my mom works at the hospital and is pretty much always gone."

"Bus? Or you could walk. Get some exercise, try putting weight on your knee."

"I dunno. Where would I work?"

"Anywhere- bag groceries, sell movie tickets, wash peoples' cars. Anything, really."

"Hmm. Okay, I'll look into that."

"Good, but in the mean time, I need fifty more leg lifts."

Jason groaned. "Damn, my right leg is gonna be buff by the time I'm done with physical therapy, huh?"


	14. Chapter 13 The Heights

**Thanks to Bleachboy95 for the review!**

**Here it is! Please review! Thanks**

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**Chapter 13**

**The Heights**

When Jason was four years old, he was given his first pair of drumsticks. His father had given them to him for his birthday. His mother would take out pots and pans and let Jason bang on them a bit, before getting a migraine and putting them away. When Jason was eight years old, his mother got him a kid-sized drum set for Christmas, and earplugs for herself. When Jason was eleven, he'd gotten his very-own full-sized snare drum and his own practice marimba with real wood! He'd play for hours, practicing all of the material in the Percussion Year One practice book he'd been given through school. He finished the book within the first month.

Jason woke the Sunday morning after his first physical therapy appointment, took his pain medication, and headed to the kitchen for a large cup of coffee, the pill bottle in his pocket. He fixed his coffee with milk and sugar, then put it in a to-go thermos and went back to his room to get dressed. The air was cooler out now, it being early in November, so he threw on a jacket and crutched out the door of his apartment while his mother was still asleep.

He wasn't sure exactly where he was going. He just kind of trudged along with empty streets. It was still early for a Sunday morning- six o'clock. The occasional person would bid him good morning or smile his way, but only few were out and about this early. He walked along the sidewalks until he reached a bus stop. He sat and waited, checking the time on his cell phone; the bus would be here in about five minutes.

He noticed the way people seemed to move a lot slower on Sundays than on any other day- as if the entire world decided to go in slow-motion. It was nice, Jason thought, to be able to see every detail, though. He saw every dog that panted as he passed, every car that skidded through the streets, every smell of every pastry bought from the bakery across the street.

The bus pulled up to the curb and screeched to a stop, the exhaust clouding all around it in a smelly fog. People hurried off and others rushed on, Jason amidst the crowd of people. Once his fair was paid and his seat was taken, Jason pulled out his iPod and put on some background music, staring out at the gray November morning through the window. His backpack, which he always had with him, was sitting on the floor by his feet, drumsticks poking out the top. A few older men on their way to the airport or women on their way to church with sleepy-eyed children cluttered the rest of the bus.

It was peaceful- the bus, the people, the pounding sound of drumline cadences pounding in his ears. He closed his eyes until he heard the faint sound of the bus driver over the intercom saying "Next stop, 19th street, Houston Heights." He gathered his backpack, crutches, and put his iPod and headphones back in his pockets, and when the bus screeched to a stop in the middle of a small town, Jason crutched off the bus.

The Houston Heights is unique- it's its own independent small town with the perfect tiny Victorian houses all decorated with perfect white picket fences and Texan flags. But the thing that makes it different is the fact that it's right next to downtown of the fourth biggest city in the United States. While downtown is busy, busy, busy, the Heights is calm, and gives a tiny glimpse of life before people forgot the importance of community. People knew each other, they greeted each other on the streets through town, the cafes and shops were family owned for long periods of time, and almost all of the buildings were over a hundred years old. Jason wandered through pet shops, antique shops, clothing and souvenir shops until he found one that caught his eye. It was a small music shop squished between an art store and a café. Most people wouldn't have noticed it if you simply walked by- it had no flashy signs or lights, no bright inviting colors, no catchy displays in the windows. The only identifiable indicator that a shop was there was the minuscule sign between the café and the art shop that read 'Music.'

A small bell 'dinged' when Jason entered the store. It was long and narrow, with guitars and violins lining the walls. Books, papers, and invoices cluttered the little wooden desk in the back of the room and a very old drum set was disassembled and stacked in the back right corner. The place smelled of sweat, spit, and slide and valve oil, as any music store or music room should. It was relatively dark, as it was too small to let a lot of light in, but small stand lamps were clamped all over the shelves of solo and theory books, lighting the smooth spines with yellow light.

"May I help you?" An old man with gray hair entered the main room from the back, wiping his hands on a dirty towel. He was short and was a little big around the middle, with small silver glasses on the edge of his nose and a balding head. He wore a large t-shirt that read 'Midwest Clinic 1986' and was covered in oil and grease spots and sharpie stains.

"No, sir. I was just looking."

"Oh, well, the stringed instruments are there near the front," He pointed behind Jason. "and the brass off to your left, woodwinds to your right, and the percussion equipment is kept in the back room. My name is Patrick Ralph, but you can call me Mr. Ralf, young man." He glanced at Jason's backpack and spotted the drumsticks poking out. "Would you like for me to show you what we have as far as percussion equipment?"

Jason smiled. "Sure, Mr. Ralf, that'd be great."

"Alright. You can leave your pack up here, if you want. It gets kind of cramped back here with all the drums. No one will bother it, everyone from this part of town is pretty honest." Jason set down his pack and followed the man to the back room.

Drums and keyboards in boxes lined the walls, drum sticks were kept in organized cubbies according to brand, use, and style. Vic Firth-Marching-plastic tips, ProMark-concert-acorn bead, Innovative Percussion-marimba-IP300. All of the mallets and sticks and brushes were in perfect condition and every one was in its correct place. The drums were just as impressive. There were drum sets and concert drums, gongs and maracas, bongos and congas. It was percussion heaven. Jason couldn't keep his eyes on just one thing- there was so much to look at.

Mr. Ralf picked out a pair of sticks from the cubbies and handed them to Jason. "Here, try these out. I noticed the ones in your knapsack weren't in the best condition." They were the shop's brand of sticks- hand crafted and were perfectly formed and smooth. Hand crafted. The meant expensive.

"No, sir. I can't afford these. These are a little too expensive."

"Just try them out, son." He gestured to a practice pad on a table near the back. Jason crutched over and put his crutches off to the side, balancing mainly on one foot. He began to play the first movement of the show music for this year. It was fun- he played paradiddles, flam taps, triplet rolls, and nine-lets perfectly. He loved it. He smiled as he played, eyes closed, envisioning his last performance of this show- well, that last _good_ one. He sped through stick flips, body movement, and backfield turns until he came to the last hold of the movement. He closed the sticks and opened his eyes, smiling brightly.

Mr. Ralf smiled back as Jason turned to look at him. "Well?" Jason looked at the sticks, then back at him.

"Sir, do you give employee discounts?"


	15. Chapter 14 Is your Band Ready?

**Sorry, this is a pretty short chapter... =/ **

**Chapter 14**

**Drum Majors, Is Your Band Ready?**

The faint sound of booming drums was all that could be heard on the parking lot other than the whizzing sound of the wind brushing past the ears of the members of the McGuire High Band. The directors stood silently at the head of the band as they all waited to perform at Galena Park High School. The air was cool, nipping at the noses and ears of the marchers, the wind stinging the drummers' bare hands as they shivered in the 50-degree November cold- something that usually didn't see Houston, Texas till the middle of December.

Mr. Locke stood with his eyes shut, his own small way of calming down before the performance. The band stood in the block, not one person daring to make a sound or move a muscle until performance time.

Jason sat in the stands with most of the parents ,wearing his band uniform to show "band spirit." Unlike the band, he'd gotten to eat nachos and hotdogs and soda all morning while they were in warm ups. That's one advantage to having a broken knee, he guessed.

The previous band, who Jason hadn't really been watching, marched off the field to the tapping of the drum captain's sticks. Tapping off was one of the things Jason missed most- the entire band depending on you through thirty or forty seconds of silence. At the far entrance to the field, Jason spotted his classmates, his band. Their beautiful white plumes blew in the breeze as they marched onto the field to Josh's tapping. Eight sets of eight steps and the band was set in the middle of the field. Mr. Locke stood in front of them, not saying a word. He lifted his arms and you could barely hear the sound of 200 band members blowing air through their warm up chorale. He cut them off, and they played the warm up chorale on their instruments, nervous and sweaty. They broke as they set up for the show that they'd learned and practiced and perfected over the past four months of their lives.

"Next in the Area F UIL Marching Competition is the McGuire High School Marching Band from Houston, Texas." The band members dropped to the ground, part of the body movement they'd learned. "The band is under the direction of Stephen Locke, Matthew Barton, and Ron Harper. Colorguard is instructed by Jennifer Moore and Percussion is instructed by Joe Ross." Every member of the band's head was tilted slightly from the wind, and the freshmen, who had never performed in this stadium, were afraid that their shakos might fall off. "Drum Majors are George Mattison, Kelley Brookes, and Megan Fern. Percussion captains are Josh Michaels, Cameron Casey, and Jason Downs." Jason was surprised to hear his name called over the speaker. Apparently, so was Josh. Jason could see his hands tightening around the small tuft of grass he was clasping in front of the front hash. "Their show is called _Circles_ and includes _Circle Dance_ by Conley, _Circles of Faith_ by Clingan, _Round_ by their own Stephen Locke.

"Drum Majors, is you band ready?" The drum majors did their salute and ran off to their positions while the crowd cheered. "You may now begin your performance for the Area F UIL Competition."


	16. Chapter 15 Highest of the High

**Sorry I haven't updated in a while. Been busy w/ school and concert season and such... PLEASE read & review. PLEASE! **

**Thanks for reading!**

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**Chapter 15**

**Highest of the High**

"That was a _great_ performance, guys!" The entire band circled around Mr. Locke near their trailer as they were handed out bottles of water. It was just past sunset when they gathered, straight off the marching field. Jason had found them and was now standing behind Locke with Mr. Ross, listening to the annual 'pride' speech. "I'm _so proud_ to call you my students. This season has been _great_ and y'all worked really hard to get here, and y'all will deserve any award you get tonight. You played together, watched you drum majors, and listened to your drum captain. It has been _great_ these past four months, and I'm sorry to say that this will be my last season with you guys." There were some 'awwww's and some sniffles from some of the sweaty, thirsty kids. "I know that y'all will all go on to do _great _things, and I want y'all all to know how proud I am of you. I love you guys."

"We love you too, Mr. Locke!" a trombone screamed from the back of the crowd. Everyone laughed and cheered and Mr. Locke smiled and blushed.

"Y'all deserve the best, and I hope that tonight, we achieved it. You've worked hard, learned hard, played hard, and marched hard. Y'all are amazing. I love you guys." He said again as he stepped back. The band clapped and cheered, realizing that it was their beloved band director's last big speech.

At dinner, Jason sat with the drum majors, talking about key points in the show that ended up phenomenally. "Yeah, when I was sitting in the stands and the circles started spinning with the guys on 'em, ooooh," Jason smiled. "I got chills."

"Yeah, I heard everyone in the crowd clapping and cheering." Said Kelley, who had been conducting on her podium. "It was pretty awesome.

"Band!" yelled Locke. "It's almost time for them to announce awards. Y'all better get back up there." At this point, a sea of red band shirts and a multi-colored blur of shorts sped for the entrance of the stadium, 200sweaty band kids shoving each other up the hill, trying to get the best spots next to their friends for judging. The drum majors, fully dressed in their uniforms, left for the judging, and everyone cheered.

Everyone in the stadium- all 30-something bands- waited in suspense for the long line of drum majors to march on to the field. You could tell when the long line began to march, because there was a faint cheering coming from the part of the stands by the end zone where they were coming from. Once you saw your drum majors, everyone in your band stood up in unison and cheered as loudly as they could. Especially McGuire High. They cheered the loudest.

As the drum majors stood on the front sideline, anxious and still, the entire stadium was suddenly covered in silence. Everyone knew that this would be the make it or break it moment for everyone.

When the announcer finally spoke, and everyone was on the edges of their bleachers, he would begin to rattle of rankings of 'Poor,' 'Below Average,' 'Average,' 'Excellent,' and 'Superior.' The bands ranked 'Superior' would be moving on to the finals round in the competition.

"Marsh Ridge High School- Excellent. McGuire High School… Superior!"

Everyone in the McGuire High band cheered as loudly as possible- hands thrown up in the air, hugs between friends and people who didn't even know each other. Directors smiling, but trying to act professional, even the announcer sounded happily surprised at the judges' scores. Mr. Locke smiled on the outside, but on the inside, he beamed. This was their chance. They were going to finals. They would make State this year. Jason hugged his fellow drummers and friends as the drum majors on the field smiled and did their salute to the thousands of audience members.

The triumph continued until the announcer asked for quiet once more. He paused as the kids breathed heavily from chanting and cheering, smiles plastered permanently on their faces. "Now for the colorguard award- Cy-Fair High School!" A sea of people from the other end of the stadium threw their hands up and cheered. The suspense grew a little tighter as they knew what every school longed for- a colorguard or percussion award.

"Now for the High Percussion award," the announcer said. He paused for dramatic (and annoying) effect. "Congratulations to… McGuire High School!"

_YES! _Jason thought. He could believe it. _OH MY GOSH! YES! WE DID IT! Well, _they _did it…_

The drummers screamed and cheered and clapped, praising God for this glorious moment. Mr. Ross could be seen with the other directors, smiling and laughing and shaking hands.

High Percussion. McGuire High had won High Percussion!

And it was all because of… Josh? Or Jason? Who was to be accredited for the win?

Jason looked at Josh two seats next to him. He smiled and high-fived Ash. Gabrielle and Maria hugged Jason and Josh. "We did it!" Cameron yelled and Josh and Gabriella woo-hooed and pumped their fists in the air. The freshman laughed and high-fived as Liam tackled Ash to the bleacher floor in triumph.

The band lined up in the block. This time, they were confident. More confident than ever before. At the front and center of the block stood Josh Michaels, head held high, eyes staring at the moon off in the distance.

When he got the okay from the directors and officials, He pulled out his sticks from their attention position and moved the beads to the center of the drum without looking down. He was focused. He was determined for this to be the best show that he, or the other drummers, or this band had ever performed.

Sweat dripping down the side of his head, mouth dry, hands slightly shaking, he tapped the band onto the field. _TAP. TAP. TAP. Two, three, four. TAP. TAP. TAP. Two, three, four. _The occasional whisper of 'line, line' could be heard all around, synchronized with each tap, reminding the others where they should be. As he approached the forty yard line, Josh began the final tap sequence, ending with his sticks coming to the attention position with a crisp _click_.

The band played through their warm up chorale, then headed off to their starting sets. When the announcer began talking, they took their positions on the ground.

The drum majors took their positions on their podiums, arms raised, minds poised. They began the count-off and the band began marching and playing. First, the clusters of mellophones, tubas, and euphoniums who played the ominous low notes, then the whole rest of the band joined in as they marched to the first hold.

The band followed the drum majors perfectly. Josh followed, feet in time with their hands, his hands in time with his feet. The onlookers and spectators disappeared from his mind entirely as he focused on the drum majors and his hands moving exactly in time with them. As the band sped through holds and slow parts, backfield turns and body movement, they stayed in time with their drum captain and drum majors, their sounds filling up the bowl-shaped stadium to the brim with glorious music. The snare drummers made their ways to the circular props in the back, ready to be harnessed.

Alex, the operator of Prop 3, helped Josh into the repaired and secured harness, fitting his ankles and back into the buckles with shaking hands. At the last hold, the circles were turned around, spinning clockwise around in a synchronized frenzy. The drummers played with Josh as he dutted, listening to the tiny metronome in his ear. Rolls and triplets and diddles all played cleanly and perfectly.

Then, Josh felt rain drops on his face and hands. Looking up, he found that the sky had opened up as the band played the most glorious and triumphant noises known to man. It was a feeling that cannot possibly be described or done justice through words. You would have to be on that field, playing those notes to truly feel the conquering power of the band.

Every member of the band smiled in their mouthpieces as they felt the power surge through them. The last note was played, the crescendo building and building until the sound was sure to be heard in China. The parents at the front of the field were high-fiving each other, laughing and grinning like God had come down and touched them saying 'you will live forever.' It was the feeling of accomplishment that filled the students and parents and directors and helpers and spectators as the McGuire High School Marching Band marched off the field that night. It was the feeling of the best night of their lives.

The rain tickled down from the sky as the band members tackled each other and hugged each other and smiled bigger than ever. That was the best possible performance possible. And they'd done it. _McGuire_ High School had done it.

Jason hurriedly crutched through the stands to join his band by the trailer as the directors yelled at the players to go get changed. The rain still came down as they all ran, laughing, cheering, talking, to the buses.

Jason looked in happy regret as he watched them run in their uniforms with their instruments, wishing that he could have shared this with them.


	17. Chapter 16 Hug a Senior

**I'm SO SORRY i haven't updated in a LONG TIME. It's busy here. Blame Shakespeare and sucky teachers... **

**To make up for it, I'm posting 2 chapters in 1 day HAHA! Does that help? **

**PLEASE comment! I need to know this: Which drum corps should Jason audition for? (ooo sorry, spoiler...)**

**Give me the name of your favorite drum corps and the one most voted will be included in the story! Thank in advance, everyone :P**

**Without any further ado, I present, Chapter 16...**

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**Chapter 16**

**Hug a Senior**

On the bus ride back after a competition, most of the members of the band would sleep. Not tonight.

The top six bands would move on to the State level. The McGuire High band won second place overall in the finals competition. In a week, they would be traveling to San Antonio to perform their show in the Alamodome. Needless to say, no one slept the entire ride home.

Nope, instead, there were band-chants and people hyped up on candy and soda. People screamed the lyrics to songs like Not Afraid by Eminem and Hate Me by Blue October. It was the perfect night.

At around two in the morning, after the two-hour-long bus ride home, the tired, but happy, band members stumbled off the bus to find a jumble of sleepy-eyed parents waiting in their cars. They entered the band hall door one at a time, putting down garment bags, hat boxes, tote bags, backpacks, shoes, socks, water bottles, sticks, music, and food near their cubbies, ready to head out to the trailer to unload their instruments.

"Once everyone has gotten their instruments off the trailer, I need to speak to everyone in the band hall, please." Mr. Locke shouted outside and inside, needing everyone to hear it. Everyone groaned at the comment that they had to stay even later. Especially Jason, who had nothing to do until then. He sat in a chair in the band hall, waiting for everyone to congregate inside.

Mr. Locke spotted Jason sitting in the chair, watching the people walk by. He'd thought of Jason almost as a son these past four years. He was proud when he got accepted to the University of Texas on a percussion scholarship. He was proud when he made an A on a test. He gave him rides home when his mother worked late. It hurt him deeply to have to see Jason like this- tired, sickly, and sad all the time. Not being able to do the one thing he really loved for three months and seeing how much he actually needed it. "Jason, how are you, son?"

Jason looked up to find Mr. Locke standing above him. "Fine, sir," he replied, unsure where this was going. "How 'bout you?"

"I'm fine. I heard about you fainting in the bathroom. I'm the one who found you, with a pill bottle in your hand." He looked hard at Jason, who was avoiding his eyes. "Is there something you need to tell me?"

Jason paused, watching the trumpets unpack their uniforms. "Umm, I, uh. I'm kinda."

"Are you having trouble keeping your medications for your knee under control?"

"… yes. Yes sir." Mr. Locke sighed in sympathy and disappointment.

"Jason, I need to tell your mother-"

"No!" He looked at Locke. "Please. I'm getting it under control. I know. She doesn't need to worry about this."

Locke looked at him hard to try and tell if he was lying. "Okay. I won't just yet. If there's anything- _anything_- that you need help with, I want you to come to me. Understand?" Jason shook his head in agreement. With that, Locke stood up and walked to the center of the room, demanding attention from the band.

"I'm gonna keep this speech short, so you can go raid McDonalds," they all smiled. "Like I said before, I am _extremely proud _of you guys. That was probably the greatest moment of my life, with the exception of the birth of my children."

"Love you too, dad!" yelled a freshman trumpet player, his son. Some people around him laughed.

"Well, I just wanted to say, before concert season, that I have been honored to teach such amazing students. Seniors, I hope you guys have the time of your lives in college. Unless you aren't majoring in music," he kidded. There were some playful scoffs from some of the seniors around the band hall. "No, y'all know I'm just kidding. Y'all have been _great_. All the best to you in the future." They all clapped and shouted and woo-hooed for their director.

Then he added, the tiniest glint of a tear in his eyes, "Everyone, hug a senior."


	18. Chapter 17 Fight Song

**Hey! This is a pretty long chapter to make up for my lack of posting!**

**Also, I've made a blog/website-type thing for marching band/percussion/this book/story-thing (Snare). It's deinitely a work in progress and I hope *crosses fingers* that you can check it out every once in a while. here's the link...if you, you know...wanted to check it out...or something...**

**http:/ snare-houston (dot) blogspot (dot) com**

**Thanks a bunch to doctorwhofan16 or commenting!**

**I still need to know your favorite drum corps! Thanks! please comment!**

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**Chapter 17**

**Fight Song**

As Jason pulled his car up to his new job- the cashier at the small music store in the Heights- he remembered the first time he walked in there. Grabbing his practice pad and his backpack, he walked inside, glad to finally be free from his crutches.

It had been a week since their band went to the State competition. Jason, watching from the stands, was sad to see the four collisions they had on the field, the out-of-time stepping and the poor marching technique as the band had a bad day. It's not like this wasn't expected- Mr. Locke had been in a car accident three days before and was home in Houston under the intense care of his doctors. He'd watch the competition via television, and would be on the phone with the other directors constantly. In addition to this, their trailer had broken down ten miles outside of Houston in the middle of nowhere and had just arrived this morning- about twenty minutes before the band was to perform. Needless to say, the band didn't do their best. Sadly, though, it was not their worst…

Jason played through the drum corps music he'd found online, marking time, staring at the page without expression. He was focused. He was meditating. He was so out of it that he didn't notice the little bell above the door ring in the middle of his playing.

"Hey, drummer boy." Said Kelley, who stood in the doorway smirking at him.

"Hey, Kelley." Jason smiled. She looked so pretty with the light shining on her… "Can I…uh… help you with something?" he asked.

"Yeah, I need some new reeds for my clarinet. Patrick said he'd have some ready for me…"

"Patrick?"

"Patrick Ralph…" She hinted.

"Oh! Mr. Ralph is gone. He's picking up a shipment of wood or metal or something…" Jason blushed from embarrassment.

"Oh. Know when he'll be back?" Jason shook his head. "Oh. Okay, can you tell him I stopped by?" she headed for the door.

"Uh, how about I see if I can find them?" Jason tried, stepping forward, not wanting her to leave.

She pondered this, looking him up and down. "Okay. They're usually in back. I'll help you." She smiled as she passed him, leading the way to the back room. They passed the percussion equipment to the very back where there was a large work desk filled with broken or partial instruments. It was almost heartbreaking to see instruments in such bad shape. A small desk lamp was the only light in the otherwise dark room, and it was very dim and hard to see.

Kelley stepped up to the desk, shuffling papers and moving instruments. She turned to Jason. "They're usually right here." She shuffled some more when Jason spotted them teetering on the corner of the desk, about to fall. He was about to say something, when suddenly, the little box was sent flying by Kelley picking up the papers that they had been resting on. Jason, drummer reflexes fast, reached out around Kelley and grabbed at them before they fell on the floor.

"Are these the right ones?" He asked as she stared in amazement at his speed. He stepped forward toward his hand so he wasn't leaning. They were now only inches apart. She looked in his eyes as she took the reeds from his hand.

"Yeah. Thanks." They still stared at each other as they grew closer and closer…

"Jason, I'm back!" Mr. Ralph yelled from the front of the store. Jason and Kelley backed away from each other, embarrassed. Jason smiled and walked to the main room. "I need you to help unload some stuff." Mr. Ralph set down a bunch of bags and headed back to the door. "Oh, son, did a girl come by to pick up reeds?"

"You mean Kelley?"

"Yeah. She came by, right?"

"Yes, sir. She's still in back, actually."

"Don't call me sir, Jason. I hate that." Ralph and Jason smiled.

"Yes si- I mean, Sure, Mr. Ralph." Jason stuttered.

"Nothing wrong with being polite; it's just not for me." He said as Jason walked out the door and around the building. "Kelley, you can help yourself to a drink from my fridge, if you'd like!" Kelley emerged from the back, clarinet and reeds in tow.

"Thanks, Patrick." She smiled at him and continued playing her scales as he left to meet Jason.

"So how come she can call you 'Patrick' but I have to call you 'Mr. Ralph?'" Jason asked as they walked up to the trailer.

"That is a very good question. And one that I do not wish to answer." Ralph answered as he unlatched and swung open the door to the back of the small truck.

"Okay."

The band was dressed out in their uniforms for the last time of the marching season. It was a bittersweet moment for everyone- marchers, directors, parents. Seniors would be moving on to their futures and the marching band family would be broken apart until August 1st. They'd made it through a brutally hot, sweaty, labor-intensive season, but this would be the last time that this whole band was together. The freshmen, sophomores, juniors, seniors, directors, parents, friends. Everyone together for one last performance.

As the band warmed up in the stands, playing the Remington scale exercise and the chorale in the keys of F, E flat, and D flat. the drummers, with their sticks ready to be broken, blasted their way through the cheerleader introductions, drum rolls for the national anthem, and all of the usual pregame fanfare.

Jason, now back to his feet, had gotten permission to play in the stands for this game, his last high school football game ever. He'd snatched up one of the old side drums that lined the walls of the percussion studio and attached a harness to it. It looked kind of funny- he wasn't used to using side drums, but he guessed it looked kinda cool. He stood in the stands, his oddball drum off to his left, sticks grooving to the steady beat of the basses behind him. This was probably the best night he'd had in four months- just him, his friends, and his drum, doing what he did best.

As the end of the first half neared, the band made its way down to the warm up area to get ready for their half time performance of _Don't Stop Believing_ and _Poker_ _Face_. Jason went down with his drum and set up with the pit, Cameron by his side.

"Do you think the girls will cry?" Cameron asked him, smiling. He had cymbals at his sides that reflected all of the light in the stadium.

"No, but I think Locke will." Jason laughed. They looked over at Locke, who was putting the marchers in their halftime block. Even from twenty feet away, you could see the smallest amount of tears forming in his eyes. They remembered that it wasn't just their last night, but his as well.

"Cameron! Pay attention, man." Mr. Ross scolded him from where the other pit members were quickly learning the cymbal parts to the two songs they were playing. Cameron gave Jason a smile and went to teach the freshmen the cymbal part to _Poker Face_.

Jason stood alone with the drum, looking more out of place by the second. The other school's band was performing _Livin' on a Prayer_ and _Yellow Submarine_ on the field.

Mr. Ross stood about ten feet away, correcting a freshman's cymbal technique. Jason walked over to him. "Mr. Ross?"

Ross looked over. "Yeah, what's up, Jason?"

"I was wondering if I might be able to play a solo at the end of _Don't Stop Believing_. It wouldn't be real long or anything. I just wanna play _something_."

Ross looked at Jason like a general inspecting a soldier, which made Jason uneasy. Finally, after what seemed like hours, Locke yelled over, "Percussion!" and broke Ross' trance. "Sure. Just don't suck."

"Right. Those are some great words of advice, Mr. Ross." Jason smiled as he went out on the field with the pit, waiting for his drum solo.

The band was in their block, playing _Don't Stop Believing_, when Jason actually felt something he hadn't felt in a long time: nervousness.

Sure, he'd played in concert band season, solo and ensemble contests, the list could go on and on, but he'd never played by himself in a stadium of around 10,000 people. That would put pressure on anybody. They say you can never tell if a drummer messes up as long as he makes it unimportant. It's not that easy to cover up mistakes under these circumstances, without practicing for around four months. That was the problem.

The band played the last chorus and the drum major cut them off and looked over to Jason. The entire band looked at Jason. The entire stadium looked at Jason. Jason looked at his drumsticks, as they started to move up and down on the old drum.

The stadium, the people, the audience, the noise. It all faded away as Jason closed his eyes and closed his ears and played whatever rhythm happened to pop into his head. Paradiddles, flams, paradiddle-diddles, ruffs, random 31-stroke rolls, anything he could think of, he threw it in. It was like the potluck of drumming. Soon into his solo, Jason just stopped planning out everything and let his sticks fly.

The audience ate it up. They were hooked- every stick flip, every single rhythm, every single stroke, they watched with a hypnotized behavior as Jason forgot how to think. He just played.

As he neared what he assumed to be the end of his performance, he decided to try something he'd never been able to do before- a quadruple stick flip. He'd tried it many times before, but had never seemed to get it right. He knew he probably wouldn't make it, but the adrenaline from him drumming, the energy of the crowd, it empowered him. He could do _anything_.

He finished the solo with an excruciatingly loud, extremely long, overly dramatic drum roll, before hitting the drum one last time as hard as he could, releasing the stick in his right hand as it rebounded back up. The drumstick flew straight up through the air- forming not four, but five complete flips on the way. As it soared back down to his outstretched hand, the sweat from under Jason's jacket tricked into his palm, to the very tips of his fingers. The crowd cheered as the single second droned on, the second when Jason realized he might not make the catch. The wind blew slightly, sending the stick about two feet to Jason's right, and he reached out to grab it from the air. He felt the smooth stick tape touch the tips of his fingers as he tried to close them, but the sweat was too slippery, and the drumstick slid straight through his palm and landed on the Astroturf.

Now, it's hard to say what Jason was thinking at the exact time that the stick hit the ground. But, it was probably something like, _Holy shit! I was _this close_ to make a quintuple stick flip, and I ruined it! God, I really don't wanna even look at the other drummers. Or Mr. Ross. Or Mr. Locke. Or even my mom. I just really wish I was anywhere but here, being stared at by a bunch of people I go to school with. Shit. _

Jason's look of disappointment was evident to the rest of the band as they headed back up the steep slope of the stadium's stairs. Jason's look of embarrassment was obvious to the rest of the band as he tried to hide from their intense stares. The rest of the band thought that at any moment, Jason might break down. Most people would shrug it off, but everyone- especially Mr. Locke, Cameron, and Kelley- knew that Jason took every little thing so seriously, so critically, that he might dwell on a single mistake for weeks. This was why he practiced nonstop. This was why he meditated. This was why he blocked everything out. This was why he never messed up. He couldn't stand imperfection. This was why he took too much pain medication. This was why avoided talking to his father. He couldn't stand weakness. He had to try to be strong- even if he was faking it.

Cameron came and grabbed Jason's shoulder, giving him a smile and a 'great job, dude.' Kelley came over and gave him a hug, which sent his spirits soaring, his smile smiling. His mom gave him a huge smile while she helped the other band parents pass out water bottles.

As the seconds on the half-time clock ticked down, and the band raised their instruments, and the drummers readied their sticks, and Mr. Locke stood nearly crying on the sideline, the band got ready to play the fight song one last time.


	19. Chapter 18 The Point at Which You Break

**Chapter 18**

**The Point at Which You Break**

"So just stay away from things that could potentially hurt your wrists more: sports, typing or writing excessively, and _no drumming_." Dr. Parson told Jason at the doctor's office. "Tendonitis is tricky to heal when it's in the wrists of a drummer."

Tendonitis: the inflammation of a tendon. A very, very _painful_ inflammation. Tendonitis: for drummers, probably one of the worst things that could happen. Tendonitis: Jason Downs' latest diagnosis.

Jason walked home feeling like everything in his life, his own little world, was dramatically ending. Jason woke up the next morning feeling like there was nothing more he could do to stop the unfortunate events that had taken place.

Take these for instance:

He had no girlfriend. Why? Because she dumped him. Why? Because he was no longer the popular star of the drumline that he had been a few months before. Now, she was all googly-eyed over the captain of the football team. Yuck.

He had less friends. Sure, his drumline friends still texted him and stuff, but only after band rehearsals and region music. They could go to movies together, as long as there wasn't a weekend practice or fundraiser blocking the opportunity.

He didn't understand one word his Pre-Calculus teacher was saying. Not. One. Word.

He had this pain in his knee every time he walked around in the rough crowds in the hallways. Walking seemed to have weakened him instead of strengthened him. He winced with every step he took as the pain shot up his leg.

He had a new drummer who took his place as drum captain. Sure Josh was a pretty good drummer, but he didn't know how to _lead_. Jason caught a glimpse of jealousy with every stroke Josh's drumsticks made on the snare head.

Now, with his newest medical diagnosis, he could no longer drum. Again.

No drumming = no meditation = pressure. Loads of it.

But, he still got up, got ready for another day of school, and slunk down the hall to the elevator to head to the car.

During lunch, Jason headed to the drum room to do homework away from darting eyes, whispering mouths, and gossiping kids. The one instrument he could still play without intense wrist was the piano parked in the back corner of the room.

He hobbled over to it and sat on the bench, running his callused hands over the soft, dark wooden body. The dark stain was wearing down and the hinges were rusty and creaky. Revealing the keys, he noticed how much character they had- they were chipped in certain places, stained or marked on in another, black paint rubbing away. He placed his fingers in the position of his favorite chord- f-sharp minor.

The piece he played had never been written down; he'd composed it three summers ago over the course of two weeks when his parents were in a fight. It was slow and melancholy, warning of an eruption of anger, leading into a musical tirade, and then calm again. Calm for a long time until so much climbing tension builds up to the breaking point when it swells again into a massive explosion, worse than the first. This happens many more times, each angrier and more desperate than the last.

He didn't think, he played. As his fingers moved across the keys, hitting the same notes they had many times since that summer three years ago, he forgot all other people in the world existed except for him and his problems with his family and his friends and his girlfriend and his drumline. He was the only thing in his world that he felt sorry for. He didn't feel sorry for his parents, who were on the verge of divorce-induced custody battles. He didn't feel sorry for his friends who had been without his company for the past weeks. He didn't feel sorry for his girlfriend, who'd also gone through a break up. He didn't feel sorry for his drumline, who had deserted him in this lonely mayhem that existed in his mind.

And he kept playing and playing, tears now forming behind his eyes, pushing for him to break. He'd never tested it. He'd never thought life would ever be hard enough to. He'd never found the point at which he'd break. But he was about to find out.

"You wanna hang out, man?" it was Jason's friend, Trevor, on the phone. "We're gonna go to the forest behind the softball fields and bring out some booze. It'll be awesome, man!" it had been weeks since Jason had had spare time to hang out with friends, and quickly agreed.

Jason was a smart guy; he knew when there was going to be trouble, never got involved in any of the usual high school scandals or anything. He knew what would happen if he did- his dad was a Houston cop. But, he decided to go, if only for the company.

Jason had only been off his crutches for a week, but already, his body was sore and his brain tired of the demand the pain put on him. Nevertheless, he snatched his wallet and headed to the bus stop; his mother had taken the car to work.

The air outside the apartment was slightly cooler than it had been a few weeks before, now nearing the middle of November. The sun was sinking lower, faster now and was visible just above the horizon. Soon it would be dark.

Jason sat on a bench at the bus stop and sighed, good to get off his foot. It was a Friday night, and a lot of other teenagers were walking or driving to the movies, the mall, a party down a couple of blocks. After about ten minutes, the bus found Jason waiting and he hobbled up the steps, paid his fair, and found a seat near the front of the bus. The bus driver pulled away from the curb and started his rounds. The city was beautiful this time of evening. All of the buildings lifted high up into the clouds and scraped the cloudy sky, and the lights illuminated the dark heaven. Cars filled the streets of downtown Houston just to the top, not overflowing it with mass chaos, while businessmen in suits and college kids with books and little children with mothers filled the sidewalks.

When the bus made its way to the residential part of town and reached McGuire High, Jason texted Trevor that he was almost there, remembered he was probably drunk, then sent it anyway. The bus stopped in front of the gargantuan high school and Jason hobbled off. He got to the forest's edge and, under the mask of darkness, slipped inside.

Trevor and his friends had set up camp between the two largest hills in the forest to mask the shining fire from the houses on the other side of the bayou (which, Jason hated to admit, was actually pretty smart of Trevor… that was rare). They'd brought a radio, putting the music up as loud as humanly possible, and Alex's dad's fire pit.

Then, of course, there was the alcohol. Trevor himself had stolen two 6-packs of Bud Light from his parents' stash, and Brent had his older brother buy them scotch for a small fee. Jason could tell he was late by the way everyone was dancing together to the music with cups and bottles in their hands. These people _would not_ act like this sober. Trevor spotted Jason coming down the hill.

"Hey, man. Come on! Grab a beer and join us!" (That's what he _meant_ to say.) A couple of girls woohoo-ed and some of the other guys "yeah!"-ed and "howa howa howa"-ed. Jason said he was fine and sat down on a log. Ten minutes later, they asked him again, and again, he declined. The third time, Trevor came over with an unopened can and sat down.

"Just one. Come on! It's Friday! The week's over, man. Come on, dude, you're always so serious. You gotta learn how to just…chill. Relax, man." Jason looked at the can, then Trevor, then the fire, then the can.

"Fine." He took it. Trevor and the others woohoo-ed again before Jason added "Just one."

Three beers later, Jason was up and partying like the others and didn't notice the flashing red and blue lights shinig through the trees. Or the large men with shiny badges jumping over fallen logs. Or the sound of his father's voice saying "This is the police!"

All thirty or forty kids tried to run away from the cops to their cars parked in the street on the other side. Jason tried to run to where the others were headed, but his knee weakened and failed him, sending him toward the hard ground. Three police officers saw Jason and surrounded him so he couldn't sneak off. He was the only one left. As some police chased the other kids and caught none, these three others surrounded Jason, the straggler. The kid with the cop for a father.

"Jason, what the hell were you thinking?" Jason sat in a blinding white room in a very uncomfortable metal chair, fluorescent lights piercing his eyes. His father stood across the table from him, brow furrowed and jaw clenched.

Jason had always unfortunately looked like his father. Light brown hair cut short, tan skin, skinny stature, captivating smile. The only difference was the look of age and experience that was plastered on his father's face. However, every time he looked in the mirror, he saw his dad starring back at him. His parents had split about a year ago, and he hated his father for leaving. He loved his father, but hated that he'd left him and his mom. His father was a respected officer in the Houston police force. He stood across the table from his son, ashamed.

"I…I _wasn't_ thinking." Jason stuttered

"You're damn right you weren't thinking, Jason!" Jason lowered his head more. He knew his mother was standing on the other side of the one-way mirror of this interrogation room, either sad and disappointed or so pissed at his that she'd beat his brain out with his own hands. He knew his father had lost some of that well-deserved and hard-earned respect from his fellow officers. He knew that once he woke up the next morning, he'd have a hangover.

But that still couldn't beat out the way he felt. The sensation after drinking two or three bottles of beer. It was like all of the worries in the world went away. Would it always feel that way after drinking two or three bottles of beer? Jason wondered.

His father looked at his son across the cold metal table and sighed. "Jason, you know that you made a mistake, but if people are driving around recklessly or going skydiving without parachutes, you wouldn't do that, would you?" Jason shook his head, not sure if her was telling the truth. "Right." He paused again. "I know it's not easy being a teenager, but you have to try to be responsible. Being responsible when it's not easy- when it's hardest- that's when it really counts. You have to stand up to your friends and tell them that what they're doing is wrong, or they're going to hurt themselves or others."

'"I get it."

"Good. Now, Jason, can you tell me their names?"

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**So... what do you think?**

**NOW I NEED THIS QUESTION ANSWERED: WHICH DRUM CORPS SHOULD JASON AUDITION FOR?**

Please review! It means the world when I see you guys are actually reading! Thanks a bunch!


	20. Author's Note 1

**Author's Note:**

**I have changed things earlier in the storry to better fit the plot and make it a little longer (teen novels are typically about 50,000 words. yikes!). So if some of the events in the past few/next few chapters don't seem to line up or don't make sense with the past story, I'm sorry. That is my own editing in my brain, and the story might not make sense. I'm sorry. **

**Thanks for reading! **

**~~Lauryn/drumming-ninja96**


	21. Chapter 19 Leg Lifts, Revisited

**Chapter 19**

**Leg Lifts, Revisited**

He was floating. He was free. He moved up toward heaven, then back toward Hell. Kind of like he was jumping. Yeah, jumping on a really really big trampoline. Or a mattress. He liked jumping on mattresses like he was a little kid again, but this wasn't a mattress. No, this wasn't jumping. He was soaring, flying, but he didn't know what he was flying through. Was it space? Was it water?

Nope. Air. Plain old air. And the air he was flying through was boring and was just the boring old atmosphere of his physical therapist's office. He was doing sit ups.

"Jason, I asked you to do fifty leg lifts, not 50 sit ups." Chelsea said as she reentered the room from the waiting area, holding his charts and papers.

"Oh. Yeah. Right." Jason let his legs straighten on the carpeted floor as he watched Chelsea make notes on his paperwork. He wondered what she was saying. Was she saying "was stupid enough to do 50 sit ups before realizing that wasn't what I asked him to do" or "completely losing his mind?" Because Jason thought both of those were extremely accurate. Every day, he could feel his mind slip a little further as he grew steadily worse and worse.

"So how you been, Jason?" she began again, putting down her pen and coming over to monitor his leg lifting. "How's school? Job?"

"School is, well…" Jason thought as he exercised. "It's as good as it's ever gonna get, I guess. This new dude, Josh, well, he got us the High Percussion award at a contest, and we went to state and all." Jason relayed the past couple of weeks to Chelsea, as his physical therapy had become less frequent due to his healing. "Job. I got a job at a music store in the Heights."

"Oh, cool. What store?"

Jason laughed. "I'm not exactly sure if it has an actual name; the sign just says 'music.' But I just do the normal stuff an owner would need help with- cashiering, unloading boxes, inventory, all that crap that no one wants to do. And I get paid for doing it. And I get employee discounts on these _amazing_ drumsticks."

"Sounds good." Jason nodded. "So if everything's good, why don't you seem…happy?"

Jason thought about this. He _was_ happy…wasn't he? He had a house, two parents, he went to a nice school, he had good friends, he had a job. Kelley made Jason feel amazing and she always seemed to make him smile. He had a great spot as kinda-sorta co-drum captain. He was a good-looking guy. He had a great shot at getting into a drum corps somewhere in the country. So why _shouldn't_ he be happy? Was there something he didn't understand? Something vital to his existence that he wasn't getting enough of? Nothing obvious came to mind. He had everything. So why did he feel so…empty?

"I can tell by the way you stopped doing leg lifts that I made you think with that last one." Chelsea broke his train of thought.

He shook it off. "Right. Sorry." He went right back to doing leg lifts.

He did his leg lifts. Up. Down. Up. Down. Kind of like life, huh? Yeah. Yeah, that's pretty good. It hurts to do leg lifts going up. It's like biking up a really steep hill without enough tread on your tires. Sometimes you can slip and fall back down. But, of course, it's the going down part that's easy. It's the one you don't have to think about. You just kind of…relax and let things pan out. But then you fall all the way down the hill and you crash. And it hurts. Badly. Your legs are all tangled up in your bike and bloodied from the ground and beaten from hitting rock bottom. So then, you get back on your bike, trying to gain enough motivation to try once again to bike up the steep hill. Because you know that once you get to the top of that hill, you can just glide back down the other side. You don't have to think about it, and it's smooth sailing from there. Yeah. Leg lifts. Riding a bike. Life.

"So, Jason, I'm going to propose something to you." Chelsea said after Jason's thought.

"Okay." Jason replied cautiously.

"I think that you should see a therapist."

"I already see you once every two weeks." Chelsea laughed.

"No, not a physical therapist. Like a…psychologist." Silence. Jason stopped doing leg lifts and sat up to look at Chelsea.

"What? Like a shrink? Why?" He was completely sane, right? Why did he have to spend $200 an hour complaining to a stranger? It was pretty ridiculous if you asked him.

"Yes, like a shrink. I think you could greatly benefit from talking to someone about this."

"About what? I have friends. I'm not some loner. I do have friends and stuff." Jason defended.

"I'm not denying that you have friends, but sometimes, maybe it's better to talk to someone outside your circle of friends. You could talk about your leg injury and your tendonitis and how that affected you emotionally." Jason stood up, putting up his walls.

"It didn't do anything to me emotionally. I'm fine. I'm _not_ crazy."

"And I'm not saying you are, it's just that being a teenager isn't the easiest thing in the world. It's probably one of the hardest. And you've been through a lot. I just think you could benefit from getting some fresh opinions."

"No. I don't like it." Jason shook his head and crossed his arms. _Therapy? Therapy is for crazy people, right? I'm _not _crazy. I am _NOT_ crazy. I'm _not_…_

Jason stormed out of the therapy room and headed for the bathroom door. His feet pounded into the carpet, and the people in the waiting area stared as he made his sudden entrance and sudden exit into the bathroom.

Locking to door, Jason turned around to see his face in the mirror. He was reminded of that night a few weeks ago, when he woke up to the immense pain in his leg. This same false pain returned, creeping up inside him, making him want to scream.

_I am _NOT_ crazy. I am _NOT_ crazy. I am _NOT_ crazy. _

He repeated it to himself over and over again as he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his tiny orange pill bottle. He juggled with the top, sending the pills flying all over the counter when he finally opened it. He took five or six in his palm, pressing them against his lips, tasting the bitter surface. Swallowing all six, he instantly felt relief. Like he knew everything was going to be okay.

He looked at himself in the mirror; he was sweating way more than any normal person should, and he was shaking. His face was red and his eyes were bloodshot. It was pretty obvious he'd been either crying or trying to get something out of his eye. He decided to go with the 'got something in his eye' story to tell his mother when he emerged. He quickly took a deep breath, knowing that the Vicodin would help. He took a towel and ran it under the cold water from the sink, putting it to his face to cool down.

He heard a knock on the door.

"Jason, sweetie, are you okay?" It was his mother. He put on his best 'hello' smile and opened the door.

"Never better," he replied. "Ready to go?" His mom stopped him by grabbing his arm, taking his face in her hands.

"Jason, sweetie, have you been crying?" She asked, concerned.

"No, I got something in my eye and had to get it out." He replied, pretty convincingly. "Come on. Let's grab dinner." He led her out the door, feeling ashamed for lying.

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**Thanks everyone!**


	22. Chapter 20 Doctor Finch

**I'm sorry it's been a very long time since I've updated. It's been busy at school, band, and at home- I'm going to Disney for band in 12 days!**

**Well i hope you like this chapter, it's really long. :D PLEASE comment! I only get better with your input!**

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**Chapter 20**

**Doctor Finch**

Jason sat by his mother in the waiting room of a tiny office building, his leg shaking out of nervousness. The walls were white and sterile; the atmosphere was hostilely intimidating and was very cold and calculating. _Weren't shrinks supposed to be all warm and inviting?_ Jason thought. He sat in a hard wooden chair that reminded him of the unforgiving concrete he'd faced during marching band practices. He looked at his mother, who stared straight forward, her face expressionless. He could tell she was worried- she distanced herself from Jason by not even looking at him.

He looked down at his hands tapping away on his jeans. He'd dressed up in a button-down church shirt and nice jeans and shoes for his appointment with Dr. Finch. After all, it had been about four years since he'd seen him last…

The door to the back rooms opened. "Jason?" asked a middle-aged man with a balding head, tiny little glasses, and dark moustache. He wore a smile in addition to his work suit that greatly juxtaposed the cold atmosphere of the office. "It's great to see you again." He said as Jason's mother stood up and shook his hand. _It's only great because my mom is paying you $200 an hour to figure out what's wrong with me._ Jason thought.

When Jason was younger, about 11, his parents had announced to him that they would be getting a divorce. This wasn't exactly a big shock to anyone- as they never really got along well. They fought over everything and never agreed on anything, making it rather hard for Jason to ever get a word in. So this came as good news to Jason, less fighting equals more fun time, right? Not exactly. Even though they didn't live in the same house, his parents still fought, only now it was over what middle school or high school he should go to, what activities he should be involved in, even what food he was supposed to eat. Jason had never truly hated his parents or his life until after the divorce, when things should have been better. Being the only child, he had no one else to blame their separation on, no one to play with, no one to talk to.

In fact, the only time he ever got any attention from both of his parents was when he jumped out of a second story window at his friend's house and broken his arm. In the hospital, when asked why he'd done it, Jason simply replied "I felt like pain." That was when his parents finally simmered down and gave a little attention to Jason. They'd sent him to the best child psychologist in Houston- Dr. Markus Finch. They'd told him that Jason was having trouble with their divorce, and Dr. Finch responded by having Jason draw and retell and explain. That was when Jason found how much he liked playing music and auditioned for percussion in his middle school's band. When Jason felt better after about two and a half years, he told his parents that he didn't need to see Dr. Finch anymore. And he didn't.

Now, here he was, 17 years old, and seeing a child psychologist for the second time in his life- only now it wasn't because he'd jumped out a second story window.

Dr. Finch led Jason through a maze of hallways that all looked exactly the same- plain white walls, plain grey carpet. Dr. Finch stopped abruptly at a plain grey door, causing Jason to almost run into him. Unlocking and opening it, he revealed a warm room with a couch, an old wooden desk, and two comfy-looking chairs. The walls were a warm blue color and the couches were soft with fluffy pillows on them. There were three lamps casting a warm glow, and five clocks total in the room; you could see one right in front of you, no matter what angle you were sitting at. There was a window behind the couch that looked down on the chilly midday bustle of the Houston business streets during lunch time.

"Can I get you something to drink?" Dr. Finch asked. Jason shook his head 'no' and they both took their seats- Jason in the couch, Dr. Finch in a chair. "So," Dr. Finch began, opening up a notebook to a specific page and writing something at the top. "How have you been, Jason?"

"I've…" Jason thought. "I've been better before."

"Really. Have you been worse?"

_Now I remember why I didn't like seeing this guy- he makes me think about hard stuff_.

"I'm not sure. Define worse."

"Well, are you in a better spot than you were four or five years ago?"

"I don't think so." Jason said. He didn't like talking to this guy like they were best friends or something.

"Do you think you're _worse_?"

"I don't really know…"

_Silence. The kind of silence where I'm supposed to be thinking about that last question, but I'm really not…hmmm I wonder what I'm gonna have for lunch…_

"You filled out a sheet on your way in, correct?" Jason nodded. "Let's take a look at that," he took out a stark-white sheet of paper from a large manila file folder with Jason's name on it. He looked at the paper intently, occasionally 'mhm'-ing or 'uh huh'-ing at Jason's answers. "I see that you don't have much energy? No going out with friends or anything like that? No," he pondered his words. "social interaction?"

Jason thought. "Not really. I mean, I guess, at school I see some of my friends, but most of them are busy with band and school and all that crap- there's not much time for…socializing."

"So what has been keeping you from being involved in band, then? I see some crutches and a bandaged knee…" He smiled sadly.

"Band incident. Long story short, I shattered my knee cap and can't walk for like another month."

"I see. So what's been keeping you from seeing your friends?"

Jason shrugged. "I dunno. I make plans with people at school and then I get home and I sit down on my bed and just… I dunno… lay there."

"What do you think about while you lay there? Anything in particular?"

"Anna- my ex. Brian- my ex's new boyfriend. Mom- she's kinda avoiding me right now. Dad- he's pretty pissed off at me right now. Kelley- this girl I guess I kinda like. Cameron- you know him. Band. School. God, I hate school. You know I'm currently failing Algebra and Physics?" Pause. Jason stared at the coffee table in between them, wanting the doctor to say something. "Then there's college- _no one _wants to think about that. I'll have to leave all of my friends who will go to different schools all around the country- or the world, even. And I have to pass all my classes in order to graduate, and if I don't graduate, I won't get into a good school, and if I don't get into a good school, I won't get a good job, and if I don't get a good job, I'll be poor, and if I'm poor, I'll be homeless, and then I'll get depressed…"

"Jason, may I point something out to you?" Jason nodded. "To me, it sounds like you already are."

"Are what? Failing at life? I already know that…"

"No. Depressed."

Another awkward silence. Jason thought about this, just like he had when Chelsea pointed this out to him at physical therapy. _Wow, two people told me that now. And one of them is a _shrink_. I'm _supposed_ to listen to a shrink, right?_

"How can you know that after, like, one session?"

"It's pretty evident to anyone you open up to- you worry a lot, you waste a lot of time, you isolate yourself. You put yourself down, you don't take care of yourself. And, by the looks of the sheet your mother filled out, you've been taking too many pain meds and you've been drinking." Dr. Finch gave Jason a scolding glare through the top of his glasses, the kind that says _you know that is wrong, and you know I'm right, will you just agree with me?_ "Why've you been drinking and taking too many prescriptions, Jason?"

"My, um, my knee…it, it hurts sometimes."

"Are you lying to me?"

"What do you think?" Dr. Finch thought about this for a minute, before leaning back in his leather chair, the files in his lap, his hands scratching his chin puzzlingly.

"_I _think that you are indeed taking the Vicodin to relieve your pain, but I don't think it's physical pain that you're trying to get rid of. Same with the drinking- it lulls you. It may make you feel good temporarily, but you know it's not good for you in the long run- getting drunk, almost overdosing. You may not even realize that you're doing it." He paused as he grabbed his files and stood up. "The human mind is a fascinating thing, Mr. Jason. Its logical side often overpowers the emotional side until we rationalize with things too much. That is what you are doing; you're saying that these feelings are just because of your knee, which may have been true at first. However, sometimes, our minds never recover from the fact that, at one time, you needed medicine for physical needs. It becomes _too_ used to it, and it makes you…_pass out in the bathroom at school_."

"How…how did you know that?"

"I've been in contact with your mother, who says she heard from a teacher of yours about the incident with the Vicodin at school." He gave Jason the glare again, filling up a mug with warm brown coffee, the smell escalating through Jason's nose.

"Jason, can you tell me how long _you_ think you've been feeling this way?"

"I dunno… a month or so?"

"Really?" Dr. Finch turned around to look at Jason, taking a sip of coffee as he did so. "Because I think this has been going on since you were a kid." Jason gave him a weird look. "But, we will discuss how you got this way more at our next session."

"What? Another session?"

"Yes, I know how much you hate psychology, which could make things more difficult; however, we _will _meet again next week. Same time."

"I can't come again next week, I have a test. I am seventeen- legally supposed to be in school unless I'm at the doctor's."

Dr. Finch gestured to his psychology Ph.D. diploma hanging in a frame on the wall. "I am a doctor."


	23. Chapter 21 Winter Line

**Chapter 21**

**Winter Line**

After his first appointment with Dr. Finch, Jason felt a little bit of the weight fall off his shoulders- it was like putting down Bass 5 after a 3-hour band practice. It felt, for lack of a better word, good.

So when he got to school on Monday, he smiled as he walked inside, happy for the first time in a long time. People noticed this and greeted him with slaps on the back, high-fives, and the occasional punch.

It was great to be alive, it was great to be at school bright and early on a Monday morning with all of his friends in first period. He held his head up high as he went through the halls, nothing could stop him! He was Jason Downs.

"Hey Jase," Kelley greeted when she found him in second period.

"Hey," He smiled. "How are you this fine morning?"

She looked at little surprised at his response, but answered, "I'm fine. What's up with you?"

"Not much," She took the seat next to him as other students of every variety piled through the door at the head of the room. The early morning sun shone through the magnificent window in the back of the room, casting a warm glow through the room. The teacher, Mr. Hickman, wrote on the board that they would be doing independent bookwork that day (he rarely provided an actual lesson), so everyone got out notebooks paper and pens and began doing busywork.

"I want it to be quiet in here," Mr. Hickman announced soon after the tardy bell rang. "_Silence._"

Jason looked at Kelley, whose golden hair glowed in the morning sunlight. God, she was beautiful. And he loved spending time with her. She was funny, smart, nice. "Hey, Kelley, can I ask you something?"

"I thought Hickman said he wanted it to be quiet, Jase." She whispered back.

"Yeah, but it's important and you have band after school."

"So ask me after class if it's that important."

"But-"

"Do I need to write you up for insubordination, Mr. Downs?" Mr. Hickman's booming voice cut through their quiet conversation.

"Um, no sir."

"Then I expect _silence_."

"Can I just ask Kelley something really quick?"

"No. Do your work."

"Come on, just real quick, I promise."

"Jase, just let it-"

"Kelley, will you go to the Winter Formal with me?"

Mr. Hickman got his silence. Kelley looked up at Jason, shocked and a little embarrassed. She blushed as she looked around the room at everyone staring at her. She looked up at Jason, looking worriedly at her, realizing that he probably should have waited till after school… But never mind that…

"Yes, Jason. Now _sit down and shut up_." And just that quickly, the moment was over and everyone went back to their work, but now whispering about what had just happened. The girls were saying 'Wow, she's so lucky' and the guys were saying 'dude, I was gonna ask her after school. Dammit!'

"Really?" Jason asked as he sat down.

"What, you thought I would say no?" She smirked at him. He smiled at her and they both went back to their work.

"So what do we do now?" Liam, the freshman bass drummer, asked the upperclassmen. It was drumline class right after lunch, and the thirteen bored drummers sat in chairs scattered throughout the percussion studio. "Marching season's over. So what now?"

"Yeah, really."

Jason, who sat in the back, who had been staring at the floor and fiddling with his crutches, stood up, crutched over to the 5-octave rosewood marimba, shimmied the cover off, and turned around to the drummers. "Now, we work on region band music."

Like previously mentioned, McGuire High is big at trying hard and coming up short. Their percussion section was talented- good kids, good music, good outcome. However, everything that happens after marching season becomes a blur to drummers; they just don't care about it because it's…boring.

So as the thirteen drummers began looking at the region band audition music that Jason had already memorized during his time off, Mr. Ross and Mr. Locke were discussing something very important in the band office.

"So Jason and some of the other upperclassmen have expressed to me their desire for a winter drumline this year."

"Joe, we tried that last year and the year before that; not enough people signed up, it was too expensive, we don't have the time or the money to deal with that. Plus, I'm not sure the kids can handle that- the pressure, learning the music; they're actually pretty lazy."

"Not when it comes to drumline." Ross looked up at the ceiling to try to think of a way to convince him otherwise. "Steve, they won high percussion at Sam Houston! They're good! They're the best drumline in the Houston area! Trust me, these are great kids, and they're all different and unique. Some of them are overachievers and some need a huge kick in the ass to get them to do anything, but there's one thing that they all have in common: they love to drum."

Locke leaned back in his chair, looking at an old photograph on his wall, remembering what it was like to be a band student. "I will put together some information," Ross smiled and sighed with relief. "Now, hold on, Joe. If I don't get twelve parent signatures and twelve checks, we can't do this. We need all twelve of them."

"There's thirteen, sir."

"We only have twelve percussion uniforms."

"Well can't we order one more?"

"No, we don't have the money. The first twelve. Tell the drum captain so I can speak with him about this, please."

"Which one?"

"Josh. Jason isn't off his crutches yet, is he?" Ross shook his head. "Well then, it pains me to say that it looks like Jason won't be able to participate this year."

Ross shook his head solemnly and opened the door of the office.

"Great news, guys," Josh stood on a chair in the percussion room soon after school. The other twelve drummers stopped drumming to listen to him. "We are going to have a Winter Drumline this year!"

There were cheers of joy and excitement, freshmen asking what that was, and Jason sat in the back corner, fiddling with his crutches, looking at the floor.

"Now," Josh continued. "There's a few things I need to tell you. This isn't going to come cheap. We will need $300 from each person for equipment rentals, contest entry fees, and all of that crap. We will need _all_ _eleven_ of you to sign up." He looked at Jason towards the back, a mocking smile on his face. They made eye contact for a split second before Jason took the liberty of gathering his sticks and his backpack and crutching out of the room.

He didn't want to hear this. He didn't want to watch everyone else rejoice in the outcome of the thing _he'd_ suggested to Locke every winter for the past four years. It was _his_ idea. It was _his_ drumline. _He_ was here first. Josh was the last resort. He was only brought in when Jason couldn't march, and now he was being glorified for the very thing that Jason had spent the past four years, countless hours, immeasurable effort, building up: The McGuire High Drumline.

He had to do _something_. He couldn't just sit back on his ass while everyone else benefitted from this but him. He couldn't think about that now, though. He couldn't think about revenge; he just wanted to get the disgusted feeling out of him. He just needed to… calm down.

He stormed out of the percussion studio and rushed for the bathroom. The only sound in the hallway was the _click_, _click_, _click_ of his crutches on the tile. As he reached the bathroom door, he threw his backpack off and left his crutches to fall on the floor, though he couldn't hear the loud crash they made. He pushed open the bathroom door and stumbled inside, locking it after him. He was the only one in here. It was silent; no booming drums, no taunting voices. He fumbled around in his jacket pocket until he found the little orange bottle of pills. Taking four, he felt deep relief knowing that his mind and body would be calm and pain-free in a few minutes' time.

He looked in the mirror, disgusted at what he saw. Dark hair, short but twisted in all directions from his hands tangling through it, stuck in place by the sweat that had just begun to dry. Blue eyes, bright and piercing, almost hard to look at. Two big, round eyes, so big and round that it almost always made him look like he was about to burst out crying. That was the thing he hated most about his appearance- he always looked like he was about to cry. Even if he _was_ about to cry, he didn't want to _look_ it. He wanted to be strong and tough, even when it was too hard.

He ran his hands under the faucet, feeling the cool water on his sweaty palms, cleansing the tarnished hands that fed him pills three to four times a day. He splashed some on his face, feeling the same cleansing sensation all over his head as it soaked his hair and dripped down.

A tug at the bathroom door awoke Jason from his trance. Then a voice, "What the hell? Why is it locked?" Jason quickly went over and unlocked the door, returning to his water faucet to collect his pill bottle. The door opened. "Oh, I thought it was locked." It was Cameron, Jason's best friend whom he hadn't seen in days, whom he hadn't talked to in God knows how long. "Hey, Jase. You okay?" Cameron asked.

"Hey, Cam." Jason smiled and looked Cameron in the eye. "Never better."


	24. Chapter 22 Cloudy Creek

**Chapter 22**

**Cloudy Creek**

It was one of those days rare to Houston, Texas: it was cool, almost cold, outside. The sky was blanketed in a grey overcast aura that was reflected in every person's mood. Everyone except Erica LaPeash, the junior drum captain of the Cloudy Creek High School Drumline.

It was about four o'clock when she greeted Jason at the bus stop right outside her school. It was brand new, with a tall entrance that commanded your attention. The school was huge- probably three times the size of McGuire High. And, as most large places would, it intimidated Jason as he stared up at its magnitude.

Erica was relatively short, Jason noticed as they walked in near silence to the percussion room on the other side of the school. She had black hair that was pulled back and had on basketball shorts and a University of Texas shirt that made her look like one of the guys. Greatly contrasting her very masculine clothes was her beautiful face, which was, well, beautiful.

"So you're from McGuire, huh?" She asked, a smirk on her face.

"Look, don't hold it against me." He smiled back.

"No, not at all. Good band… Great drumline… Y'all won High Percussion a few weeks back right?"

"Yeah. We were all shocked by that- an award for something other than concert band."

"Ha. So I take it McGuire isn't really into marching as much?"

"Well, the only ones that like marching season pretty much is the percussion section. Everyone else is really focused on concert season."

"Yeah…" She looked at the floor as she walked, going through the route to the band hall like she was an expert navigator with no need for a map. Jason, meanwhile, was trying hard to remember the path they were taking- the doors they were going through, which buildings they passed, the classrooms they ignored. "So we'll go in, introduce you, and then we'd like to see what you can do- got a solo or something you could play us?"

"Yeah, of course. I'm sure I can whip something up."

"Awesome. Our percussion teacher here is Mr. Grove. He's pretty cool. I think you'll like him."

At last, they reached the band hall, then, past that was the percussion room. They entered to find fourteen drummers with their drums scattered across the room, jamming on chairs, floors, and cubbies to the same rhythm, someone occasionally grabbing the spotlight with an unexpected and relatively cool solo. Like the percussion room at McGuire, the walls were lined top to bottom with drums, marimbas, keyboards, and cases. Unlike McGuire though, the walls were also lined in awards.

In the back of the room was Mr. Grove, who was watching them play and smiling slightly. Once he saw Jason, he stood up and cut them off with a big sweeping motion. They all stopped and punched each other's arms, saying "that was awesome!" and "nice solo, Rick." Then Erica took over.

"Hey guys. Take a knee." All of the drummers knelt down on their knees like a football team listening to their coach. "Okay. This is Jason Downs. He's from McGuire High School on the other side of town." There were murmurs of _why is he here?_ And _welcome, dude!_ before Erica started again. "He is going to be our newest edition to the drumline."

"Why isn't he at his own school?" A kid near the back asked.

"Jason, you wanna tell the story?" She proposed. He stood up and cleared his throat nervously; he wasn't a very good talker.

"Um, I was the drum captain at McGuire until I broke my knee during one of the football games."

"What'd you do, get tackled or something?" The same kid on the back asked.

"Connor, shut up and let him talk!" A girl in the front spat.

"Huh. No, not really, but the props we had malfunctioned and I was sent flying into the bench, which shattered my knee. Anyway, they brought some kid from Alabama in to take my place and now that I'm better and we're doing winter line, they're still gonna pick him over me. And I'd met Erica at the last contest, so I gave her a call and she said I could come and see if you guys would take me…"

"You a senior, boy?" Connor asked.

"Yeah, that's why I really wanted to come here… It's my last year to march, and I didn't really get to..."

"Well, let's hear you play, boy." Connor said.

Jason grabbed a snare drum from the end of the snare line that was resting on the floor. The weight of the drum felt good- it was like putting on your backpack the first day of school; it's good to be back. He examined the carrier, each nick and scratch. He looked at the surface of the drum- Remo heads almost spotless, ready for winter drumline. The cover for the drum had been recently washed, stretched around the drum and perfectly strapped in place. Jason grabbed his sticks from his back pocket- the ones he'd gotten from the music store in the Heights. They were newly wrapped in stark white stick tape, and there were no nicks or breaks in the even pattern. He held his sticks in ready position, his fingers curled around them calmly and comfortably. He brought his head up and looked straight into the giant mirror covering one of the walls.

In his head, he thought,

"Mark time march. One, two, three, four." He pulled his sticks out on three over the center of the drum, the beads making a prefect "V" shape. One the next count, he began to play. Slowly at first, as his solo required. A few flams with stick flips and turns and a triple flip at the end, which he'd perfected. Then he sped up, his feet moving the same slow pace they had before, but his hands gaining momentum as they hit the drum. Right left right right left left. Right left right right left left. Right left right left right right. Left right left right left left. This pattern continued as his hands went at different speeds- half notes, quarter notes, eight notes, sixteenth notes, then perfectly balanced rolls that had taken months of practice to perfect. His chops were strong, you could tell, and his left hand strong, as well. He played without expression, falling deeper and deeper into meditation with every stroke he played. After playing for about a minute, he closed his eyes, while his hands kept moving up and down, his playing filled with dynamic emotion and long-practiced precision.

The other fifteen people in the room stared at him as he played, amazed that such talent could come from someone who hadn't played on a real marching drum in months.

When Jason stopped playing, his feet stopped moving and his eyes opened slowly to find every single person in the room staring at his with either amazement or jealousy. Everyone wanted to play that well. After about ten seconds of embarrassing awkward silence, Jason asked, "Well?"

"Well, I don't even see a question here…" Connor commented. "I think we all know what Erica's gonna say…"

Everyone then moved their glances to Erica, who sat in a chair leaned over with her head on her fist, staring at Jason. She smiled as she said, "You're in."


End file.
